


The Marriage Bargain

by kianspo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Arranged Marriage, First Time, Harlequin, M/M, Romance, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr had made a fortune manufacturing steel in Europe. When he wished to expand to the New World, he discovered that no one would do business with him unless he was affiliated with one of the First Families, the creme de la creme of the NW aristocracy. When Lord Marko holds an auction to give away his 14-year-old stepson's hand in marriage, Erik sees his chance and takes it. He has no interest in Charles himself, but now that he has him, can they make it work?</p>
<p>Written for <a href="http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/8700.html?thread=20577020#t20577020">this prompt</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Marriage Bargain

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is first and foremost FANTASY. Expect made-up locations and geography, screwed up history, invented locations, traditions, etc. There are also certain elements of the _Swordspoint_ universe by Ellen Kushner incorporated here. 
> 
> This is tagged **underage** because Charles is 14 at the beginning of the story. If you want to know at what age the sexual part of this will start, please find a way to contact me privately either via [Tumblr](http://kianspo.tumblr.com/), pm, or LJ, because I see no reason to spoil this for everyone else.
> 
> Those of you who prefer the finer things like By Faint Indirections and have formed your opinion of me based on that, turn away now, because what follows bellow is what happens when I relax and let myself have fun. Neither the language nor the story will be what you'd expect of me, so use this warning to save your eyes. ;)
> 
> The ever patient secret_chord25 has kindly cleaned this up for me. ♥
> 
> Lastly, is you still don't know what to expect, this is HARLEQUIN. Abandon hope all ye who enter here. :D

 

_art by[foxkurama](http://foxkurama.tumblr.com/)_

 

**Part I. Erik.**

1.

The famous St George on the Hill church was smaller than its flattering engravings implied and overburdened with dark-red gold. Erik looked around, struggling to hide his distaste, and tugged at his tie again.

“Stop that,” Azazel hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “High-borns don’t fidget.”

“This is ridiculous,” Erik grumbled under his breath, but let his hand fall.

The collar of his shirt was so heavily starched that it threatened to cut his throat if he dared breathe too deeply, but, as he looked around at the assorted assembly, he knew that his friend had a point. They were all watching him – surreptitiously, of course; they would never stoop so low as to ogle him openly – with quick flicks out of the corner of their eyes and whispered words uttered with smirks behind strategically-placed fans.

They were subtle but didn’t make the scrutiny any less oppressive.

As the last scion of an obscure European line, in their eyes, Erik was barely nobility – a faint echo of the glorious Eisenhardts, whose house had been steadily decaying for the last two centuries until, finally, the direct line had come to an end. In Europe, it was enough to have the doors open for him, even those of royalty.

But here, in America, far away from kings and their courts, aristocracy _was_ the establishment, a power unto themselves. They scoffed at the money he’d made in his business ventures and barely deigned to consider him someone above a common merchant.

“It is,” Azazel agreed, pulling Erik’s thoughts away from his furious musings. “But this is why you’re doing this, is it not? To become one of them.”

“The cost of doing business,” Erik muttered, wishing his wedding costume wasn’t quite so tight. The tailor had obviously wished to flatter his figure, which was admirable, but now he could hardly move and had already begun to perspire. “I wish they’d hurry up.”

Azazel shot him an amused glance and retreated a step – for a better view, no doubt, the smug bastard. He wasn’t of noble blood at all, and Erik knew that most of the people present were regarding Erik choosing him as his best man as a quaint eccentricity at best, and a personal affront at worst. But no matter how frequently Erik reminded himself that this was just another form of a business transaction, he had to admit at last that the proceedings were making him nervous. He gave no outward sign of it, naturally, but the presence of his friend and professional partner was very welcome.

A wave of whispers rolled suddenly from the magnificent doors to the altar where Erik was standing, its rise and fall just as fluid. Erik half-turned to look.

Kurt Marko was walking down the aisle, his wife, Sharon Xavier, on his arm. His face was sheer gloating, the emotion so obvious it was obscene. But then, during their previous encounters, Erik had already gotten the impression that the man cared little for manners or decent behavior.

His wife, in contrast, revealed no emotions whatsoever, not even a small smile of a proud mother – understandable in the circumstances and therefore forgivable. Instead, her face was a blank mask, so indifferent that it was hard to imagine any feeling had ever dared touch it. Her pearly grey dress was the epitome of taste; her spine was irreproachably straight, her chin lifted up in just the right measure to appear arrogant and commanding, but never rude.

She was the quintessence of American high society – unapproachable, cold, and reverting.

Erik caught Azazel swallowing reflexively and trying to stand up straighter. Erik himself was not so easily intimidated, especially not by someone who relied solely on their blood line to command respect, but even he had reached instinctively for all the ferrous metal in the room. Its ready obedience to his command soothed him.

A hush fell over the church as Marko and Sharon strode leisurely to their places, kept empty for them in the first row by Marko’s son, Cain. Marko nodded at Erik with familiarity that made Erik shudder with disgust on the inside. Not that he cared for such things, considering the circumstances, but he was suddenly intensely pleased that Kurt Marko was not a blood relative of his fiancé.

The whispers had resumed as the Markos took their places, but not for long. Several tall figures dressed in white appeared in the doorway, and every sound died down, blown off like candles under a gust of wind.

Erik’s heart skipped a bit as he peered at the procession, shock making his throat go dry. Surely… surely not. Not even Marko could be so sadistic.

But it would appear that he was. Amidst the white-clad figures of acolytes, there was another one, wrapped in black. It was a traditional, ceremonial robe that hadn’t seen the light of day for at least a century in Europe and, as far as Erik knew, was a relic of the past in the New World, as well.

Apparently not for Kurt Marko.

His stepson – for it could be no one else – could barely walk, taking miniscule steps, wrapped in yards of heavy black fabric from his head all the way down to his ankles. The lengthy sleeves were tied behind his back, keeping his arms pulled back awkwardly, the knots cutting off circulation to his wrists. On top, under a layer of delicate black lace, there was a polished metallic mask that encompassed the boy’s head entirely, only leaving small holes for his eyes and nose. His eyes, however, were hidden under a blindfold.

The silence that fell over the church was deafening. Erik had never been particularly intuitive, but even he could tell that he wasn’t the only one astonished at the display of barbarism. The ancient law concerning the ways to marry underage boys and girls had never been rescinded, but only because it was too absurd to uphold.

Erik’s eyes were glued to the boy. Even as the anger at Kurt Marko’s treatment of his stepson was making him seethe, he couldn’t help but admire his fiancé. Erik could see no part of him under the inhumane costume, but there was no mistaking the way the boy carried himself.

He was slight for his fourteen years, smaller still, walking barefoot amidst the tall bulky figures. It was October, and the stone floor must have been ice cold; he didn’t show he noticed.

His walk was smooth, if severely limited in speed and gauge. He was walking confidently, as though he could see, paying no heed to the acolytes that were supposed to guide him, the mere suggestion of requiring help seeming to offend him. His head was held high in defiance to tradition, despite the heavy mask that had to cause him all kinds of pain and was bound to weigh him down. He squared his shoulders, making the crude, tasteless collar around his neck stand out like a piece of exquisite jewelry.

Erik had never met Charles Francis Xavier. He hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him when signing the marriage contract with Marko, nor had he wanted to – he didn’t care one way or another what the boy looked like. This marriage was a necessity. Erik wasn’t a curious man; he didn’t lust after young boys, and saw no reason to become upset or disappointed beforehand if it turned out the boy was a stupid, spoiled brat. Before this day, until a minute ago, Erik harbored no feelings at all with regard to his future husband.

Right now, within moments of Charles’s entrance, Erik couldn’t help a wave of mounting respect for him, spiked with admiration. It was strong enough to eclipse even his anger at Marko’s actions.

_Just bear through the day,_ Erik begged silently, hoping beyond hope that the boy could hear him. He was rumored to be telepathic, after all. _Curse him to have done this to you. If only I’d known._

There was no indication if he’d been heard or not. Charles kept walking, painfully slow, with enough dignity to put every member of royalty on the planet to shame. By the time he was finally standing before Erik and the priest, it was as though a small eternity had passed.

In comparison, the ceremony was brief. Erik was required to say little, and Charles couldn’t talk at all, denied even the physical ability to do so to further underline his status. Every time Kurt Marko rose to give an answer for him, Erik had to dig his nails into his palms to prevent himself from attacking the man.

The chosen ritual was one, of course, that required Charles to kneel at one point. Erik wasn’t allowed to touch him, not even if he fell. But Charles didn’t. Somehow, effectively bound as he was, he managed to kneel without breaking his perfect posture.

He had some trouble standing up, and Erik gripped the metal of his mask despite himself, saving his balance without anyone noticing. Charles turned his head just slightly in Erik’s direction as he stood up, acknowledging Erik’s presence for the first time. Aside from that, he made no response at all.

The ceremony rolled on, seamless.

To Erik’s dismay, Charles wasn’t allowed to change after it was over. Not between greeting the seemingly endless line of people wishing them well (Charles nodded to each of them), and not during the reception at the Xavier city house later.

Erik was allowed to touch him now, but it was a small consolation. With Charles’s hands tied behind his back, even gripping his elbow to help him down the steps was probably only serving to further his discomfort. And even being officially married now, Erik couldn’t simply lift the boy into his arms and spare him the pain of crushing his feet against the still-sharp cobblestones. They weren’t commoners, after all – touching in public was extremely poor taste.

Erik was supposed to eat at the reception and drink with anyone who wished to toast him. He could barely swallow a bite, all too aware of the silent figure beside him, motionless as a statue. The proceedings would likely amount to an entire day during which Charles wasn’t allowed a bite of food or a sip of water. Every time Erik stumbled over Kurt Marko’s smug face, he reached for his glass involuntarily. It was selfish of him to want to get drunk, but he couldn’t help the craving.

When the time had finally come – after the prolonged, required torture of dancing (for Erik) and fireworks – for the newlyweds to be sent off, they were separated again, Charles being hauled into a carriage and whisked away before Erik.

Marko, by then too drunk to be fit for society, followed them out to say goodbye. He wrapped an arm over Erik’s shoulders, making Erik’s hand reach for his sword.

“You take care of my boy now, Lehnsherr, you hear me?” he poured wetly into Erik’s ear. “The little brat’s too feisty for his own good, but the garb will have worn him down by now. Enjoy your night!”

Only the thought that killing the man right now would undoubtedly render the whole day of endurance worthless for both him and Charles stilled Erik’s hand.

He shrugged Marko’s arm off and signaled for his own carriage. Azazel could have gotten him home in the blink of an eye, but the bastard had disappeared a while back, probably somewhere where women and vodka were cheap and ample – not that Erik could blame him. He barely stopped to give a polite nod toward the lady of the house, who was too busy to answer him and appeared to regard her husband with an air of mild distaste.

Erik spent the ride fuming, disgusted with himself. He had no intention to do anything remotely close to what Marko had been implying, but he felt dirty all the same. The mere thought that if he did, no one would bat an eye – that it was _expected_ \- made him feel nauseated. He yelled at the driver to go faster, but it was hardly enough to take the edge off.

The house he bought was closer to the port than was respectable, but at the time, Erik didn’t care. It was conveniently placed for his business requirements, and that was enough. At the moment, he cared even less about what any of the uptown folk might have had to say about that.

Logan was waiting for him by the door.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growled around his ever-present cigar before Erik had even jumped out of the carriage. “Have you lost your mind?”

“That wasn’t my idea,” Erik snapped, tearing the strangling tie away from his throat at last. “Where’s the boy now?”

“In your bedroom, _my lord_ ,” Logan said with a mocking lilt. “I’d like to say that he’s waiting like a good little husband for you to have your way with him, but he passed out, you see, on his way here. So unless you’re into importuning unconscious children—”

Erik snarled, pushing Logan up against the wall by the metal he could always sense inside his chief of security and confidante.

“For the last time, Logan,” he growled, “who do you think I am? If I had any idea Marko would do this, I’d have—”

“What? Pulled out of the auction? You knew full well how old he is! It didn’t occur to you that, if the kid’s family decided to sell him like a goddamn horse to the highest bidder, there might be something fishy about them?”

“No, it didn’t!” Erik yelled, even though, in truth, he’d tried not to think about it at all at the time. “It’s the way things are done around here, Logan! And Xaviers have the bluest blood on this continent, so it did, in fact, seemed like a logical thing to do!”

“Let me go, you son of a bitch,” Logan snapped, and Erik pulled back, both of them breathing hard.

It was dark in the corridor, and, apart from the two of them, not a soul in sight. If Erik was feeling generous, he’d praise himself for hiring smart servants. Logan glared at him in the semi-darkness, rolling his shoulders.

“Well,” he said at last, finally glancing away. “The kid might be better off with us anyway.”

Exhausted, Erik rubbed his forehead. “How is he?”

Logan scowled. “Breathing. We could barely rouse him to make him take some water once we had that horrible thing off him, but that was it. He should have more when he wakes.”

Erik nodded. “Lock up, and stand guard yourself tonight. It’s been a long day; I don’t want any nighttime surprises.”

“I was going to anyway,” Logan grumbled, disrespectful as ever. “Go get some sleep, your lordship. You look like a married man.”

Erik snorted. “Don’t remind me.”

With a mental sweep, he picked up a candle by its metallic casing and started up the stairs, pulling his jacket off as he went, and undoing the buttons on the vest. He paused by his bedroom door, and took a deep breath before going in.

There were two beds in there now, the second one installed per Erik’s instructions only days ago.

Charles Xavier was sitting on the farthest one from the door, rolling his wrists in measured, precise motions, forward and back.

He was definitely not sleeping.

\--

The boy froze as Erik entered. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, without uttering a word.

Then, to Erik’s immense surprise, Charles slid off the bed and onto his feet. He bowed to Erik in a manner befitting both their stations, as courteously as if they’d been introduced at a gathering somewhere.

“Greetings, my lord.”

Charles’s voice was cool and languid, not boyish at all. He sounded remarkably English, and Erik stared at him for a moment too long, distracted by that notion.

“You’re awake,” he managed intelligently.

Charles lifted an eyebrow that was somehow twice as unimpressed as that of his mother’s, not deigning to reply.

Erik took a moment to study him.

He was short, not drastically so, but somehow not giving the impression of growing, given time, into a towering presence. He wasn’t, however, as waifish as Erik had imagined; his posture was good, and there was promise in the span of his shoulders. His entire build suggested that he dedicated a suitable amount of time to all the physical activities favored by those of his standing – fencing, dancing, and riding. Probably mostly to riding, Erik thought, noticing the shift of muscles in the boy’s thighs under the thin undergarments he was wearing.

Charles’s hair, glowing richly in the candlelight, was the deep color of ripe chestnuts, giving away the nobleman in him faster and more precisely than his clothes or even his manner ever could. He seemed to have inherited his mother’s fine, pale skin, but his face was in shadows, and Erik couldn’t make out the color of his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Erik asked, floating the candle to the bedside table.

The boy followed its progress with his eyes, his face briefly registering open fascination before he caught himself and schooled his features.

“I am well, my lord.”

“Please,” Erik said. “There’s no need. There’s no one but us here now.”

Somehow, it was the wrong thing to say.

Charles stiffened instantly. Erik, who was generally adept in reading body language, could clearly see that the boy was about to step back and had only stopped himself at the last moment.

“You should sit down,” Erik said, trying to make it sound gentle. It wasn’t his forte. “You – it has been quite a day.”

Erik’s words seemed to have broken some kind of spell, or perhaps Charles had simply reached the end of his endurance. His shoulders moved as though in a shrug, his whole stance wavering.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather get this over with,” he said, exhaustion clinging to every syllable, making his drawl more pronounced. “My lord,” he added as an afterthought.

Erik frowned. “Get what over with?”

Charles lifted his head, but he wasn’t looking at Erik. His eyes were fixed on the second bed. His hands reached gingerly toward the laces of his nightshirt, and he winced, clearly in pain.

Erik went cold.

“Charles,” he said sharply. “No. That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?” Charles kept on trying to work on the lacing with numb fingers. “We’re married; you’re entitled. I won’t cause a fuss. I was going to,” he explained with eerie calmness, frowning down at a tricky knot. “But Kurt… knows what he’s doing.”

“What do you mean?” Erik asked quietly.

“I haven’t had any food for the last three days,” Charles said, distracted. He was tugging at the lace in frustration now. “Kurt insisted.”

“He _what_?” Erik snapped.

Charles shrugged. “It’s not an uncommon punishment; I actually prefer it. It renders quite a – a remarkable clarity to the mind, I have discovered. The body, though—” He sighed and let his hands drop. “I’m afraid I’ll be quite useless to you either way tonight, my lord. But that shouldn’t stop you. I’m not up to do much screaming, either.”

The last thing Charles needed right now was to be loomed over, but Erik couldn’t stop himself from walking over to him and gripping his shoulders.

“Charles. Look at me.”

Charles complied, letting the light hit his face for the first time. Erik gasped. A bruise was blooming on his cheekbone, a reddened imprint of a man’s hand.

“Kurt?” Erik pushed out through gritted teeth, even though he already knew the answer.

Charles frowned and pulled back, freeing himself from Erik’s hold.

“He was in his right.”

“Why?” Erik demanded. “Did you try to run away?” It was what Erik would have probably attempted.

But Charles looked at him with mild incredulity. “Are you mad? Of course not; I could never run away from—” He shook his head. “No. I was merely asking him to postpone the wedding so that I could finish the semester at school. Obviously the clarity of mind hadn’t yet settled when I asked him.”

He tilted his head, studying Erik. “Anyway. Do you always talk so much before bedding someone? I have heard it doesn’t take all that long. Can’t we just – get on with it? I’ve had a trying day, you said so yourself, my lord.”

“Charles.” Erik pursed his lips, swallowing a stream of curses. An impossible boy; was there no getting through to him? “Sit down before you fall down.”

The corner of Charles’s mouth twisted in a mocking smirk, but he complied.

“I… realize these are not ideal circumstances to get to know someone, but I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Erik tried.

Charles lifted an eyebrow again, but mercifully said nothing.

“I have not entered this marriage to – to have easy access to your body. I promise you, I will never touch you against your will. This isn’t what this arrangement is about. I’m sure you know that people get married for lots of different reasons. Oh God, I’m not even sure you know—” He wished desperately for a glass of scotch.

“All right. Let’s start from the beginning. You’re Charles Xavier, lord of Westchester, the future duke of New York. I’m Erik—”

“Lehnsherr,” Charles interrupted him in an amused tone. “Son of Jakob, the last lord of Pomerania. You are one of the Gifted. You have the ability to manipulate metals and magnetic fields. You made a fortune manufacturing steel in Germany and Britain. Logically, you wished to expand, and came to America. Here you discovered that the old prejudices are new again, and no one will do business with you unless you are affiliated with one of the First Families. That was when someone told you that my stepfather was holding an auction. Adding the name Xavier to yours would solve all your difficulties.”

Erik stared at him, feeling the uncommon sensation of color rising in his cheeks. It was probably the sting that made him blurt out angrily, “Are you reading my mind?”

Charles recoiled as though Erik had slapped him. He moved as if to curl into a ball before catching himself, trembling with effort.

“I would never!” His voice took a turn for the desperate, losing its languid poise. “Not without permission, it’s forbidden, I don’t – I’m not – I read the dossier Kurt had collected on every suitor.”

The admission came quieter than his previous impassioned denials. Erik, whose momentary anger was already leaving him, felt worse watching Charles wrap his arms around himself.

“I would hardly declare my intentions in such a manner,” Erik said.

Charles stopped shaking, his eyebrow curving again. “I _am_ capable of independent thought and possess some humble talent toward elementary reasoning, Lord Lehnsherr.”

_Incorrigible_. The circumstances had to look bleak from Charles’s perspective, yet here he was, challenging his master – the man in command of his very life for the time being – again. Erik could see how a man like Marko would find that difficult to stand.

If Erik hadn’t been so furious with himself at the moment, he would have delighted in it.

“Well, your reasoning does you honor,” Erik said, calm, “and I am glad of it. It is as you said, my lord Charles. But let us not forget that this marriage, while serving to achieve my goals, was a mutually beneficial transaction. Forgive me for being more blunt than courteous, but your family, as I was given to understand, is not as financially stable as it used to be. This is how business works, people exchange—”

Charles was staring at him, as though not quite believing his ears. Then he threw back his head and laughed. There was very little mirth in that laughter, but a while had passed before he could collect himself.

“Lord Lehnsherr, my family owns half this city,” Charles said, his eyes bright with dark, sardonic amusement. “It is my stepfather who has no means to support himself. I am the sole heir of the Xavier line, you see, and he only has access to that money until I turn twenty-one.”

The laughter was still bubbling in his chest, uncontrollable. If Erik didn’t know better, he’d think Charles was drunk.

“The auction was a brilliant idea; I should have given my stepfather more credit. He killed two birds with one stone – had removed me from his house and became a very rich man.” He glanced over at Erik. “I imagine it had taken quite a fortune for you to win the grand honor of my presence under your roof.”

Numb, Erik could only stare at him. It was true – he had to cash in a number of his assets to beat the competition.

Charles shook his head, still laughing unkindly. “Forgive _me_ for being more blunt than courteous, my lord,” he drawled, openly mocking. “But if you truly wish for this society to accept you as one of their own, you need to learn not to be so easily deceived.”

He was being deliberately insolent, but Erik couldn’t deny that he deserved it. Humiliation made his hands curl into fists and his jaw clenched.

Charles took that in, swallowed, and stood up, lifting his face toward Erik, challenging him.

“So you see, my lord Erik,” he drawled with poisonous sweetness into Erik’s face, “that mutually beneficial transaction you spoke of? You had it with Kurt. Not me. I stand nothing to gain from it.”

He took another step into Erik’s space.

“You say you will not touch me, but you _have_ bought me. You seem like a practical man. Why not use the thing you possess?”

“Why do you keep doing this? Trying to provoke me?” Erik demanded, desperate, torn by the conflicting emotions he wasn’t used to having. “Do you _want_ me to hurt you, you senseless creature?”

“I have no faith that you wouldn’t.” Charles’s voice dropped to a whisper; his head began to fall back. “They call you the German Shark, did you know? You have the face of a killer.”

His eyes rolled back as the extreme nervous tension drained the last of his energy. Erik caught him before he fell, lifting him up with frightening ease.

He carried Charles over to the bed and tucked him in carefully. His features looked drawn even now, and Erik paused for a moment, peering down at him.

The boy had humiliated him with arrogance befitting his blood, but Erik would have done worse in his place, betrayed and scared as he must have felt. And he was definitely scared, his actions those of a cornered animal.

Absurdly, Charles’s last words were what weighed on Erik the hardest. The boy might not have read his thoughts, but he still saw too much.

Erik reached down to push the hair gently off Charles’s face.

“I will never harm you,” he whispered, his fingers caught in the soft strands. “Whether you believe me or not. I promise, Charles.”

Unable to stand the thought of spending the night in the same room, Erik left, closing the door softly behind him.

2.

Erik didn’t expect Charles to come down in time for breakfast.

He himself had spent a restless night, locked up in his study, pacing and staring into the fading ambers in the fireplace, only dozing off at dawn for a bit.

But Erik’s body was too disciplined to allow for weakness. He hadn’t known a moment of true relaxation since he himself had been fourteen passing for sixteen to voluntarily join King Gustav’s army.

He’d learned a lot of things during his tour of duty; waking up ready for battle at any hour was one of them.

Killing was another.

Charles – _damn_ that boy and his uncanny perceptiveness – saw right through him.

War was an ugly, cruel affair, even when it was for the right reasons. Erik didn’t like to think back to that time, though he had always believed that the lessons he’d learned had served him well. The cunning; the strategizing; thinking several moves ahead; acting without undue cruelness, but with no hesitation or sentiment. He’d won his title, and he’d used the knowledge gained to make a fortune.

He considered himself ruthless. He had not foreseen to suffer a defeat on account of his moral compass – something he believed he had lost a long time ago. And now, Kurt Marko had shown him otherwise.

The door to the breakfast room opened with a soft whisper, making Erik look up from his newspaper.

Charles walked in, dressed neatly in a fitting set of morning clothes. He looked pale, but somehow more substantial than the feverish, wild thing from the night before.

“Good morning, my lord,” he said in a tone that was nothing but politely neutral, as he bowed to Erik.

Erik stood up and returned it. “Good morning. Have you slept well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Please.” Erik gestured at the covered trays assembled at the serving table. “I didn’t know your preference, so I ordered a bit of everything.”

Charles glanced at the food briefly before looking up at Erik, eyes coming alive with curiosity.

“Thank you. That is most kind.”

He hesitated, and Erik felt awkward standing at his shoulder. He returned to his seat and picked up his newspaper again.

“If I might make a suggestion,” he said, looking down at the article about a new airship station, “it would be better perhaps to start with the eggs.”

He could feel Charles looking at him, but kept on reading without taking in a word. At last, the boy murmured a quiet word of gratitude and moved to fill his plate.

Silence reigned over the small room for a while. Charles was eating, chewing slowly and thoughtfully and subtly cementing his earlier claim about precious bouts of enforced starvation. Erik gritted his teeth, but said nothing. He concentrated instead on an impromptu burst of approval at the way the boy was handling it. He had no right to feel proud of Charles, but the feeling was there nonetheless.

The coffee in Erik’s cup soon went cold; Erik glanced at it, wondering if he should have offered Charles some chocolate instead. It was the preferred morning drink in the noble houses these days, after all, even if Erik quietly despised it. He wasn’t sure he even had any in the house, though his cook would undoubtedly rise to such a challenge.

He was contemplating ringing for her when Charles cleared his throat, a soft little noise that made Erik look up.

“Lord Lehnsherr, I—” Charles closed his eyes for a moment, then sat up even straighter if possible, and ploughed on. “I wished to apologize for my behavior last night.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t what Erik was expecting.

The color rose treacherously in the boy’s face. He seemed to have difficulty meeting Erik’s eyes.

Strange, Erik thought. He had no trouble at all the night before.

“Yes. I – I’m afraid I became overexcited during the proceedings,” Charles told his empty plate in a carefully modulated voice. “I… do not remember precisely, but it is possible… I might have said some things that I should not have.”

Erik laid the paper down, contemplating Charles over the length of the breakfast table.

“How… disappointing,” he said at last, his tone gentle.

Charles blinked and looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“I thought that, despite the circumstances, you were remarkably clear-headed last night. I had to admire the precision of your analysis – and your candor.”

Charles was fighting a losing battle against a blush. Erik had to bite the inside of his cheek not to grin.

_By God, you’re smart_ and _adorable._

Charles winced and stared at him, eyes wide.

“You heard me,” Erik deduced.

“Forgive me, that was very loud,” Charles hastened to explain. “My shields are weaker when I’m tired.”

Erik lifted up a hand. “It’s fine, Charles. I do not mind.” He smiled softly in response to an incredulous look. “It is enough that you wish to respect my privacy. I would be a hypocrite if I scorned you for using your Gift.”

He stood up and walked around the table until he was able to pull out a chair next to Charles. The boy was watching him with a carefully schooled expression.

“Charles, I have considered what you told me last night, and I have come to the conclusion that you are right. I am a man of business, and a deal is not fair when only one party enjoys the benefits.”

“I—” Charles bit his lip. “It was not your fault.”

“I am not responsible for your stepfather’s actions, that much is true,” Erik said. “And Charles. I do not regret entering that auction nor winning it. You do not know who my competition was, not really. I do. I know how this must sound to you right now, but in time you will be able to see that this was the best possible option.”

The mere thought about what would have happened if Charles had fallen into the hands of Sebastian Shaw made Erik’s skin crawl.

Charles frowned. “I apologized for my behavior because it was unacceptable. That does not mean that I am prepared to see you as my knight in shining armor.”

Erik smiled. “I didn’t think you would. But Charles, this doesn’t have to be difficult. Because you are fourteen, in four years, we will be required to go through a confirmation ceremony. If at that time you wish to rescind your stepfather’s word and be free of me, I will not oppose you.”

Charles stared, his mouth falling open slightly. “You would let me go?”

“If that is your wish. I would let you go now, but that would ruin your reputation as well as that of your family.”

Charles’s eyes widened. “Please, you can’t—”

“Calm yourself, Charles; I have no intention of throwing you out. Quite the contrary – I wish to offer you a new deal, one between you and me.”

Charles blinked. “Why? You already have me.”

“But contrary to what you seem to believe, I do not enjoy taking advantage of anyone,” Erik snapped.

He regretted the tone immediately, but Charles merely looked at him as though fighting back a grin. Impossible boy.

“Four years,” Erik said. “We will remain married for four years, and during that time you will have every possible comfort you wish for. The only thing I cannot give you is to return you back to school.”

Charles nodded, grim. “I know.”

“Anything else, anything I possess or can procure for you is yours. We will have to share a bedroom, or there will be talk, but I will never impose on you with my attention. And in four years, should that be your wish, I will let you go.”

Charles was silent for a while, studying the intricate pattern on the tablecloth.

“That is very generous of you, Lord Lehnsherr—”

“Erik,” Erik interrupted. “I do not much stand for ceremony in my own home.”

“So I am discovering,” Charles intoned dryly, making Erik bite back another smile. “It is very generous, and I – I accept. I would be a fool not to. I can promise you that I will assist you in achieving your due status in any way that I can.”

That was more than Erik had hoped for, but there was something odd in Charles’s expression.

“Something is bothering you still,” Erik observed.

“…Why are you doing this?” Charles asked, strangely sincere. “I am the only one who can change his mind in four years. Do you not wish for a real family? Someone to—”

“—love?” Erik smiled. “I am sure it seems extremely cynical to someone your age, but romantic love is not something I entirely believe in, Charles. A mother can love her child, and a man can love his country, but beyond that, there is only passion and respect. My dearest ambition in marriage is to find a partner, not a lover. I am not a sentimental man; ask Logan, and he will tell you that I have no heart to give.” He paused. “And there are other means to satisfy the flesh outside the marital bed.”

“I – I see.” Charles was blushing again. Erik must have been thinking too loudly once more – the boy shot him an irritated look. “I can’t really help it. And I’m _not_ adorable!”

Erik raised his hands, not feeling particularly remorseful. “As you say, my lord.”

“You’re mocking me,” Charles sighed. “Perhaps we are better matched than I thought.”

“On that, we seem to be in agreement.” Erik stood up. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to at the factory. Please use the day to get some rest. The servants have been instructed to provide you with anything you might need, and Logan is always here. Explore the house, if you wish – but do rest first.”

“I will,” Charles said quietly.

Then, to Erik’s surprise, he slid to his feet, caught Erik’s hand, and raised it to his lips.

“Thank you, Erik.”

A vindictive blush rising in his own cheeks now, Erik stepped back hastily, glancing away. Charles’s eyes were very blue, and sharp, like raw electricity.

“Yes, well. It is your home now, too.”

Charles smiled at Erik’s deliberate misinterpretation and let him go.

Once outside the room, Erik shook his head at himself. Then he laughed.

Suddenly, what had seemed like the worst idea in the world only the night before was starting to show promise.

3.

Erik liked the ambiguous position of bankers in society. On the one hand, they weren’t nobility, and remained, essentially, servants; on the other, many of them died in wealth and comfort that some of the highest members of the aristocracy couldn’t dream of. They also knew more secrets than a family physician, and were very, very influential people. Erik had never made the mistake of treating them with anything other than the utmost respect.

“Young Lord Xavier didn’t lie to you,” Master Penn was saying, regarding Erik over the rim of his peculiar square spectacles. “In fact, he might have been too humble. In addition to New York, the Xavier family owns property all over East Coast. I believe they also own two castles in Europe.”

Erik nodded thoughtfully. He didn’t think Charles had lied to him, but, after his recent lapse of vigilance, finding out precisely what they were dealing with seemed only prudent.

“As his husband, you may view his accounts,” Master Penn continued. “But I have to warn you now that you won’t be able to take any actions with his finances with the exception of the expense account.”

Erik peered at him coolly. “Master Penn, as someone who is intimately familiar with _my_ finances, I would think you wouldn’t jump to the conclusion that I married Charles for his money. I am hardly a poor man myself.”

“Quite.” Master Penn’s thin lips stretched in a smile. “My apologies if I offended you. You have to understand, Lord Lehnsherr, that what seems like a reprehensible reason to enter matrimony for most people looks quite differently from a banker’s point of view.”

Amused at the non-apology, Erik lifted an eyebrow. “Money chooses money?”

“Precisely. To be frank, I was surprised that you didn’t come to me before signing the contract.”

Erik smiled politely, lifting his hands up in a disarming gesture. “I am at a loss to explain it myself.”

Penn regarded him curiously. “When you didn’t approach me, I assumed that you were already aware of the details from… other sources.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

In truth, the situation was quite baffling for Erik himself, considering his usual thoroughness in all things.

But the very idea to resorting to a method such as marriage had been so unsettling that, even after exhausting all other options and accepting its necessity, he had tried to avoid delving into it too deeply. It was an equation. Charles was a known constant, just a ‘typical little noble,’ spoiled to a degree as yet unknown but ultimately irrelevant. Charles as a living, breathing person hadn’t been part of the equation at all.

It was a mistake Erik wasn’t planning on making again.

“Well, regardless of your motivation, financially speaking, your marriage has a chance of becoming a highly successful enterprise,” Penn said, neutral as ever. “My congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“And if I may, sir? I am familiar with young Lord Charles, and I had the honor of being a friend of his father’s. I believe it grants me certain… leeway with propriety, if only just this once. It is my sincere belief that any man or woman to become a spouse of Lord Xavier is a very fortunate individual. Regardless of his financial status.”

Erik lifted an eyebrow. “Quite a claim from a man of your profession.”

Master Penn gave him another thin smile. “We all have our… weaknesses.”

Erik nodded, considering the man in front of him. “Master Penn… I understand that you take Lord Charles’s interests close to heart? No, no, please do not deny it – such care is obvious and quite natural, given your relationship with his father. Personally, it is gratifying to hear.”

“I’m glad.”

“I, too, care for my husband’s wellbeing a great deal, as you can imagine. Our acquaintance has been short, but already I can see that he is quite… extraordinary.” Erik stippled his fingers in a pensive gesture, projecting an image of casualness. “In the interest of serving his happiness, can you tell me about his father’s death? The circumstances were somewhat… uncertain, I was given to understand.”

Penn was looking at him steadily, his expression calculating. He clearly cared about Charles, which came as no surprise to Erik now that he’d met the boy properly. But Penn’s loyalty was always to his clients, and Erik was quite a distinguished one. He suspected that Penn and his partners knew things about him no one else could dream of finding out, but it never bothered Erik. Their discretion was seen to by the _negative percents_ he had settled for his accounts.

“I could always ask Charles, of course,” Erik mused out loud, keeping his voice soft. “But I wouldn’t wish to bring back bad memories.”

Richard Penn was a good man. He was an even better banker.

“Yes, I can certainly see how that wouldn’t be… desirable.” He nodded, reaching for the bell. “I will call for some chocolate.”

The disgustingly sweet taste still melting on his tongue, Erik walked out of the bank an hour later, in possession of a substantial portion of information he was certain he could trust for a change.

All he had known before was that the late Duke Xavier died when Charles was very young in an accident of some sort. The story Penn had told him was far richer on the details.

The late Duke Xavier had been an eccentric. Apparently, the entire Xavier House had a reputation for being unorthodox, but people tended to excuse such things more willingly when someone rich and noble demonstrated the quirks. Being the first of the First Families, the Xaviers could allow themselves quite a lot.

Brian Xavier had been inordinately fond of the sciences of all kinds, and his interests were as eclectic as his wardrobe. He had funded a great amount of ventures set up to perpetuate technological progress in addition to being quite an inventor himself.

He had been returning home from inspecting one of his numerous projects when his airship had crashed within a few dozen feet of the Xavier private landing pad. Some said there was a storm and a lightning bolt hit the ship; others remember the day as sunny and clear, and the duke as having gotten drunk and started the fire himself.

In any case, the ship lost control and fell close enough to the ground that Lord Brian had survived the initial crash; however, he was also severely injured and became trapped, caged by the flames and melting metal. By several different accounts, it had taken him a while to die – some said he was able to shout his last instructions to the servants who had gathered around, unable to help him.

That part was clearly a fairytale, but the implications were terrifying – all the more so because the duke’s five-year-old son had been there to meet him. No one thought to take him away after the crash, and he had stayed there till the very last moment, until rain finally came and doused the flames.

In his twenty-five years, Erik had seen a lot of death, but he didn’t think he had ever witnessed anything so horrifying. He hoped, vaguely, that Charles had been too young to remember, but now that he’d met the boy, Erik didn’t think that was likely.

Of all the Gifts to possess that day, telepathy must have been the worst curse imaginable.

\--

The conversation with Penn weighed heavily on his mind for the rest of the day. Knowing this one thing about Charles didn’t help solve the enigma of him.

Living with him so far hadn’t been at all what Erik imagined living with a fourteen-year-old would be like.

Charles was unerringly polite and eerily quiet – he didn’t speak unless spoken to, at least not to Erik. According to Logan, he had made quite a friendly impression on the servants, but when Erik was around, Charles turned into some kind of non-entity persona, as though unknowingly wishing to fulfill the role Erik had set for him before meeting him. There were moments when Erik sorely missed the wild, hyper creature from their wedding night.

Not, of course, that Erik was around often. He left early, often before breakfast, and frequently returned after the night watch. Setting up a new factory was not an easy task, but Azazel was highly competent and had been with Erik long enough to earn his trust. Strictly speaking, Erik didn’t need to be there the entire time, but he convinced himself of the emergency.

He didn’t allow himself a moment to dwell on why, though Charles didn’t seem to care for his presence. He had been getting quieter day after day, but Erik wasn’t certain that it wasn’t just his imagination.

He didn’t know what Charles was doing all day, except, apparently, fencing with Logan in the afternoons. It was Logan’s idea, and Charles accepted his offer, though it wasn’t clear if it was out of politeness or genuine interest.

“How is he?” Erik asked one night, when he had once again returned home too late to meet Charles for dinner. He couldn’t help the curiosity.

Logan scowled. “He could be better.”

Erik’s eyebrows rose. “Is he really that bad?”

In response, Logan lifted his arm, demonstrating a long, bloodstained tear on his sleeve. Erik stared.

“He actually got you?”

Logan’s face contorted in a convoluted expression of disgust. “Yeah, and then he dropped the sword and rushed to me like I was dying or something.”

Erik snorted. “He was concerned.”

“I was his _opponent_!” Logan growled. “You don’t rush to your enemy when you wound him! The boy has no sense – he’s fast, bendy like a goddamn grapevine, _and_ he thinks ahead.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming…”

“He fights like he doesn’t want to hurt anyone!” Logan exploded. “Like it’s all a damn exercise, and as soon as it stops being one, he just _freezes_.”

Erik shrugged. “You didn’t think he’d want to become a swordsman.”

He shouldn’t be laughing, but Logan’s affront at someone who could be good enough with a sword but didn’t want to use it was amusing. Erik could sympathize; Logan was rarely complimentary about anyone at all.

Erik clapped him on the shoulder. “He can defend himself. You have to be glad about that.”

Logan shook his hand off in irritation. “All I’m saying is, if he’s ever challenged, you or I had better be there to claim the fight.”

Erik chuckled and watched Logan stomp off, huffing and muttering darkly under his breath.

When Erik went upstairs, however, he discovered that Charles’s bed was empty. During the last few days, Erik had become used to seeing the boy curled under the blankets; it felt strangely reassuring to find him safely asleep there every night.

Erik frowned; it was past midnight. Obviously Charles was in, or Logan would have warned him.

“Charles?” he called softly, wondering if Charles had decided to take a late bath.

No one answered.

Oddly disquieted, Erik retreated into the corridor and began the search of the house. He had no luck in the upstairs drawing room or the ballroom or any of the bedrooms. He had to get Charles something, he thought absently, striding through the enfilade of dark empty rooms. Some kind of distinctive jewelry, a bracelet or a ring, so that Erik could always locate him…

His search finally took him back downstairs and into his own study. Erik entered quietly, but Charles looked up anyway from where he was sitting, cross-legged, on the thick Persian rug in front of the fire, crouched over a book. He stood up as Erik approached, collecting the volume neatly in his hand.

“Good evening, my lord.” Charles’s accent seemed exceptionally fitting in the quietness of the room. “Am I intruding?”

Erik shook his head. “I was merely surprised to find you out of bed at this hour. Is everything all right?”

Charles set the book carefully on the table. It was Erik’s copy of _The Shipyards of Europe_ , possibly the most boring book on the subject of building ships to ever have existed but useful as a resource guide.

“Trouble sleeping?” Erik prompted as the silence stretched.

“You don’t have a lot of books,” Charles said at last, ignoring the question.

“Well… no. I’m afraid not.” Erik looked around the study that even to him seemed a little gloomy. There were precious few volumes on the shelves, most of them technical manuals. For a moment, he let his thoughts drift back toward his grandfather’s library where he used to hide as a child – it felt like another life. “I’ve been moving around quite a bit, and it didn’t seem practical to keep a collection.”

Charles nodded without comment. Erik studied him.

“Why didn’t you go out to get something? Edel’s has a store just around the corner, and they are good, aren’t they?”

Charles gave him an odd look. “Why didn’t I—” He bit his lip, then shook his head, as though answering his own question.

“Do you… like it here?” Erik asked, feeling extremely wrong-footed.

“It’s a lovely house,” Charles told the mantelpiece in a tone that was more bored than complimentary. “You can see the ships come and go from the roof. It’s fascinating.”

“Oh,” Erik said. “I’ve never been up there.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Erik narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure everything is fine?”

“Perfect,” Charles confirmed, his steadily flat tone not at all reassuring. “Do you plan to be home tomorrow morning? It would be beneficial if you stayed.”

“I could stay if you wish.”

“It would certainly make things easier. Thank you.”

“What things?”

Charles was looking at him, as though waiting for him to catch on, but Erik only felt confused by the sudden change of direction. “Today is Sunday.”

“Did you want to go to church?” Erik ventured.

Charles’s eyes widened for a split second before he glanced away. His lips quirked, as though he was fighting back a grin.

“No.”

Erik waited.

Finally, Charles deigned to elaborate. “It’s been a week since our wedding day. Tomorrow we can start receive visitors and calling on people. I am certain that my family will call on us tomorrow.”

“Do you want to see them?”

Charles looked away. “There’s – etiquette to these things. One that no one in society can escape, as I’m sure you know.”

Erik was certain there was an insult hidden in the words somewhere, but it wasn’t what made him frown. It wasn’t evident in Charles’s tone or in his words, but Erik had gotten a vague, persistent impression that Charles was… offended, and that he, Erik, was the one who caused the offense.

“Charles,” he started with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “I’m afraid I have never paid much attention to etiquette. You… might have to guide me, so that we do not commit a social _faux pas_.”

It was as much as he was physically able to admit, but it must have been enough. Something softened imperceptibly in Charles; an indefinite sort of rigidness went out of his body.

“It would be my honor,” he said, and raised his hand to cover a yawn. “We’ll talk more at breakfast. Goodnight, Erik.”

It was good enough, but as Charles moved past him, Erik reached instinctively to catch his hand. He squeezed it in both his own, and kissed it.

Charles blinked in surprise – then smiled.

4.

The morning wasn’t anything like what Erik had expected.

Charles was up uncharacteristically early and insisted that they have breakfast straight away. Erik humored him, mostly because Charles had already spoken to the cook and the footmen and had the whole household rearranged before Erik was done with his morning routine. There was the strangest feeling of being caught in a whirlwind, and Erik wanted to joke about it, but Charles was pale, strangely agitated. Stomping down on his instinct – admittedly not the most well-natured one – Erik decided against teasing.

Considering the way his family treated him, Erik was surprised to see the expression of eager nervousness on Charles’s face as he gulped down a helping of bitter chocolate, nearly demolishing the cup with the strength he used to reunite it with its saucer. But when Erik asked if everything was in order, Charles gave him a blank look and returned his attention to his breakfast, buttering his toast with painfully slow meticulousness.

They weren’t quite done with the meal when they heard the sound of a carriage entering the premises, the cheerful noise of hooves against the cobblestones. Charles jumped out of his chair and nearly ran over the footman coming in to announce the arrival of the Markos. Erik lifted an eyebrow – family or no, the hour was still pushing the edges of decency. Most nobles would still be in bed.

He got his explanation, at least in part, when the guests were escorted into the morning room. Lord and Lady Marko were the first to enter, followed closely by Cain. Just as they were saying their greetings, a girl of no more than twelve or thirteen years of age came trailing in. She had blond hair, neatly braided and tied with light green ribbons matching her dress. She seemed sweet enough, if nervous, but there was something odd about her features, some kind of dissonance that Erik couldn’t pinpoint.

“Charles!” the girl squeaked and, forgetting all bonds of etiquette, rushed toward him.

Charles laughed and caught her, pulling her close for a few brief moments and whispering something into her ear.

Lady Marko wore a scandalized expression, and Lord Marko glared at the pair openly.

Ignoring them, Charles turned toward Erik, the girl’s hand held securely between his own.

“Lord Lehnsherr, may I present my sister Raven?”

Erik peered at her closely but failed to uncover any family resemblance. She hadn’t been at the wedding, or, if she had, he couldn’t remember seeing her. He smiled, and, to his surprise, she shot him a wary, if not downright hostile look. Her eyes flickered from him to Charles and back before settling at last on her brother, their expression one of deepest concern.

Erik had the feeling that she would lunge at him like a wild cat, all claws and teeth and murder, at the slightest sign from Charles.

He liked her immediately.

The look on Charles’s face was one of mild reproach, overcome by fondness. He must have conveyed just enough reassurance – after a moment, Raven relaxed and gave Erik a perfectly civil curtsy.

“I’m honored, my lady,” Erik said, bowing to her and unwilling to wipe the smirk off his face.

Her eyes widened; she bit her lip, stifling a grin. The look she aimed at her brother this time was pure mischief. Charles, for whatever reason, blushed.

“If you’re quite done, Raven,” Lady Marko said coldly, and the girl’s face dimmed as she muttered her apologies.

The protocol restored, they sat down, carrying on with stifled small talk.

Hiding a frown, Erik glanced over at Marko. “We are, of course, perfectly happy to see you in our house, Lord Marko, but I have to say you are fortunate that Charles is an early riser.” At this, Marko shot a nasty look at Charles, before schooling his expression back to one of civility and returning his attention to Erik. “I can’t imagine many of your acquaintances are up at so early an hour.”

Marko stretched his lips in a smile. “I hope you can excuse a little impatience on my lady’s part, my lord. It is difficult for a mother when her child marries young. Some adjustment is required.”

“How are you, Charles, dear?” Sharon asked, looking him over. “I’ve missed you quite a lot, my darling.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik caught a brief flash of surprise flitting over Charles’s face, but he suppressed it quickly.

“I am perfectly well, thank you, Mother,” he responded, smiling. “And I’m certain you won’t suffer from the loss for long. Raven will be more than capable of helping you with sitting arrangements for your next dinner party.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear, what does your sister know of these things?” Lady Marko said dismissively. “We would have come to see you sooner, of course; I wanted your opinion on the gift for the duchess. But there is that silly rule, as you know – as though someone needs a week to get better acquainted with their new spouse. Most inconvenient.”

A light chill prickled down Erik’s spine. Social conventions had never been his forte, but this was something even he was aware of. There was an old-fashioned rule that the new couple was released from the obligations to society for a week after the wedding – to consummate their marriage. Not considering Charles at all in such a context, Erik had failed to remember that.

“Of course, we _would_ have come sooner,” Kurt Marko said with a laugh, “had we known that the two of you would be done getting better acquainted so quickly. Lord Evans told me you’ve been running to that factory of yours all week, my lord Lehnsherr. Not that I blame you – I, better than anyone, know that our Charlie here still has a lot to learn. He _is_ very young, after all.”

Erik was having difficulty formulating a response that wouldn’t sound like a formal challenge. It was rare that he experienced anger like this, spreading through his entire body like wild fire.

Unexpectedly, it was Raven who spoke next.

“I’m sure establishing a new factory is a very demanding process, my lord,” she said, glaring at Kurt. “You must realize that the demands of managing a growing enterprise often have poor timing.”

Her voice was high and childish still, giving away her anger too easily, but her words were clever. It was perfectly clear that none of the Markos knew anything about managing a business – that it was beneath them was irrelevant.

“Oh, don’t you go worrying your pretty head, nugget,” Cain Marko laughed. “I’m sure when we get _you_ married off, we won’t get an audience with your husband for a month.”

The insult was transparent, but effective in the way it hit both siblings – Charles for not being able to keep his husband’s interest even for a few days, and Raven for being, sweet words aside, a slut. For two people who shared absolutely no features in common, Charles and Raven’s expressions were remarkably identical at that moment – a tight mixture of anger and embarrassment. Both of them were flushed.

Erik’s own hands were curling into fists, but he wasn’t going to let any spoiled noble brat make him lose his temper.

He ignored Cain, giving Raven a kind smile instead. “You are correct, my lady Raven. Unfortunately, establishing my enterprise on the new soil turned out more demanding than even I had imagined. I’m afraid it’s made me seem less than courteous to my husband.”

At this, he looked at Charles with sincere apology in his eyes, despite a pang of annoyance at the boy.

Charles had only to remind him… But that wasn’t fair.

It occurred to Erik suddenly that, for all he knew, Charles might have concurred with his stepbrother’s assessment. It would certainly explain the way he grew quieter in Erik’s presence of late. The thought seemed ridiculous to Erik, but _he_ wasn’t a fourteen-year-old boy who had been handed over by his own family to a stranger to do with as he pleased – and he pleased, for all intents and purposes, to ignore him.

Thinking back toward the conversation last night, Erik experienced the strongest urge to hit himself.

Instead, he reached over, and took Charles’s hand, hushing its startled flutter. “I intend to make up for it, however,” he said, holding Charles’s eyes. “I’m discovering every day just how lucky a man I am.”

He kissed Charles’s hand softly before releasing him, ignoring Marko’s disgusted huff that he didn’t have the decency to suppress and the palpable disapproval emanating from Lady Marko. Yes, Erik was pushing the boundaries of decency, but the only occasion when it could be excused would, in fact, be a family gathering.

The look Charles gave him, however, was more puzzled than grateful. Erik returned his attention to his guests, steering the conversation toward more neutral subjects, such as the recent embargo on Chinese silk that was causing much distress to the ladies of the City, as well as the feud between two lords over a useless but exceptionally picturesque piece of land toward the north.

Concentrating on being as civil as possible to a man he acutely disliked, Erik had missed the moment when Charles slipped away from the conversation entirely. Raven didn’t have much to say in the first place, or, more likely, wasn’t expected to, so their silence hadn’t registered as something conspicuous.

Kurt Marko was in the middle of a long rant about a complete lack of organization during the last New World Expo, for which he blamed entirely the infamous Lord Stark, when an unexpected sound cut him off mid-word.

It was a giggle, loud and full of mirth, and drastically out of place in a room full of somber-faced people.

They all turned to look.

Charles was frozen in his seat, like a statue. Erik recalled once seeing a whole park decorated with ice sculptures in Reykjavik; Charles would have fit right in.

Raven, wide-eyed with shock, had a hand clapped over her mouth, as though trying to catch the sound after it had escaped, but the damage was done.

“Something you find amusing, my sweet?” Lord Marko drawled in a dangerous tone.

“No,” Raven whimpered, going pale and shaking her head quickly.

“Of course not,” Marko growled. “Because _I_ haven’t said anything amusing, have I? But he did.” He pointed his short, fat finger at Charles. “You and your damn mind tricks! What have you done this time? Made us all jump on our chairs? Take our clothes off? Shout obscenities?”

“I have not done anything,” Charles replied coolly.

“He really didn’t,” Raven piped up, visibly shrinking under Marko’s onslaught but determined all the same. “He didn’t even say anything. I laughed because – because I thought that d-draping over there was moving funny. There’s probably a draft or—”

“Cease with this nonsense,” Marko snapped, standing up and taking a step toward her. “You’re trying to cover for him, but it won’t work, girl. You” – he glowered at Charles – “I warned you time and again about using your abominable ‘talents.’ Do you know what they used to do to the likes of you? I can make it happen, boy, if you don’t behave—”

“Excuse me.” Erik stood up as well, and in his case, it was a far more intimidating gesture. Calmly, he stepped in Marko’s path, looking down at him. “What exactly do you imply by ‘the likes of him’ and what was done to ‘them?’”

The metal in the room was shivering. Erik stretched his power, just a little bit, touching every scrap of it ever so gently – the doorknob; the clasp of Lady Marko’s purse; the ornate window frame; the buckles on Lord Marko’s shoes and belt; the necklace he was wearing under his shirt.

“I—” Lord Marko blinked. “That’s not what I—”

His wife glanced at him nervously. His son was staring at the buttons of his jacket, as though expecting them to jump up his throat.

“Are you prejudiced against the Gifted, sir?” Erik inquired casually.

“What?” Marko blanched at the accusation. “N-no! The Gifted are – they are… That’s different! Respectable Gifts like metal bending or – or healing – are one thing. But his is just a – a _perversion_! That mind trickery is despicable – intrusive, immodest, _indecent_! Do you think me an irresponsible guardian, sir? I begged him to stop using it, warned him that no honest people would tolerate it – but he persists!”

“I told you before.” Charles lifted his chin up, visibly fighting for control – and losing, almost shaking with anger. “I can no more stop using my Gift than you can stop breathing.”

“You insolent little—”

Erik squared his shoulders. “I suggest you stop there, sir,” he said coldly. “May I remind you that this is my house? You are Charles’s guardian no longer. Under _my_ roof, _my_ husband is at liberty to use his Gifts however he likes.” He paused. “I happen to think that telepathy is an amazing ability, one that I admire a great deal.”

Angry red blotches bloomed at random all over Marko’s face, making him look as though he was about to explode.

“You _admire_ —”

“Furthermore” – Erik spoke over him, uninterested in whatever it was the man was about to say – “if you insult Charles again in my presence, I will have to ask you to leave.”

For a few long moments, a harsh, tense silence reigned, filled with glaring and tightly pressed lips.

Unexpectedly, it was Lady Marko who next spoke, her tone one of tired indifference.

“Well, Charles dear, I can see that married life hasn’t changed your propensity for drawing attention to yourself in the most inappropriate ways.” She gave her son a mildly disapproving look. “I do hope it makes you happy that you seem to have found an appreciative audience.”

Her words were like a gust of cold wind, cooling down blazing tempers. It substituted the heat with resentment, perhaps, but of a quiet, slow-burning kind. Slowly, the men sat back into their chairs, still keeping their eyes on each other, as though expecting the other to attack.

“It has never made me happy to make your life miserable, Madam,” Charles replied quietly. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t be silly, darling. _That_ is well beyond your reach.”

They caught each other’s eye. Charles smiled.

The Markos spent another fifteen minutes in the house, the time filled mostly with Lady Marko’s pointed comments on the furnishing, Cain’s grunts, and Raven’s one-syllable responses, before the visit was over. Lord Marko did not speak a word for the remainder of it.

When Erik returned from seeing the guests off, he found Charles standing beside the window, staring into the courtyard, seemingly without taking anything in. His shoulders were tense, his entire posture rigid and emanating unhappiness.

“Are you all right?” Erik asked him cautiously.

Charles turned to him, frowning. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?”

“I don’t need your protection. I could have handled Kurt on my own.”

Erik’s eyebrows crawled up. “Could you, now? My impression was that you were just about to cower before him.”

He didn’t mean to snap, but he was still angry. He hadn’t acted to prompt Charles’s gratitude, but he expected it nonetheless. That Charles would refuse to stand up to Marko but was not going to surrender an inch of ground to Erik stung.

“I did not _cower_ before him,” Charles replied sharply. “But you didn’t have to get in his face.”

“Why? What do I have to be afraid of? What are _you_ afraid of?” Erik demanded. “You don’t live with him anymore, Charles – he has no power over you. He can’t hurt you.”

“No,” Charles said quietly. “But he _can_ hurt Raven.”

Erik fell silent, the wind knocked out of his sails. Charles cocked his head to the side, a mean kind of challenge making his eyes brighten like ghost lights.

“You haven’t thought about it, have you? You really think me such a weakling that I would allow him to abuse me, that I would go along with this” – he gestured impatiently between them – “had I been the only one to suffer the consequences? Well, I’m not.”

Erik wanted to protest, but Charles had him. He had felt sorry for the boy since the very first night, but there was also resentment there, and Erik hadn’t even caught it.

Charles was watching him with eyes too knowing and bitter for someone his age. His cheeks were flushed with shame.

“Raven is not my sister by blood,” he said, turning back toward the window. “My father wanted to adopt her, but he couldn’t, so he said she was his daughter instead.” His lips curved. “My mother never quite forgave him.”

“He never acknowledged her,” Erik deduced.

Charles sighed. “He had, but – not properly. He didn’t change the will. She has nothing of her own. I can do nothing until I come of age. She is entirely dependent on Kurt.”

Erik swore in the colorful manner that had first earned him Logan’s grudging respect and free passage over the Baltic Sea. Shocked out of his brooding, Charles turned around, staring at him.

“Sorry,” Erik offered, not feeling remotely remorseful.

“Quite all right.” Charles smiled tentatively, then laughed softly, as though unable to help himself.

“It _is_ a weakness to love someone that much,” Erik said, stepping closer. Charles stiffened and fell silent, but Erik laid a hand on his shoulder, turning the boy back toward him. “But it’s a weakness only the strongest of men can afford. And I—” He shook his head helplessly. “God help me, Charles, I can’t believe you’re related to these people.”

Charles’s smile was back, uncertain. “You hardly know me.”

“I know enough.”

He didn’t know where the compulsion came from, but he pulled Charles closer still and kissed his forehead.

“I don’t think you’re weak,” he said, lips grazing the soft strands.

Charles looked up at him, searching his eyes with a desperate kind of hopefulness. It made Erik’s chest seize, seeing such naked self-doubt on Charles’s face – the torture of it, the dire need for reassurance, the sheer want to have someone – anyone – believe in him.

“It’s all right.” Erik nodded. “You can check if you want to.” He tapped his fingers against his temple.

For a moment, Charles looked torn and sorely tempted, but then he shook his head, and smiled.

“I believe you.”

5.

They spent the rest of the week receiving and returning visits.

It wasn’t as taxing as Erik had imagined. He wasn’t completely lacking social grace; most of the time he was simply uninterested in exercising any.

But this time, he was making an effort; establishing himself in a new circle demanded more effort than he normally deigned to exude, but Erik surprised himself with his enthusiasm.

He liked the City, and wanted to become part of it.

Charles, true to his word, was making every effort to help, and his work wasn’t inconsiderable. Erik watched him often in the sitting rooms and morning halls, smiling charmingly at everyone present. His tender age, combined with the incredible laughing blue of his eyes, ensured that he was a great success with the ladies, who declared him adorable, along with most of the gentlemen. Charles played up the image, adding just enough infantile whimsy to his manner to stir even more hearts. He was a picture of perfect, lively innocence, completely above suspicion.

“I’m so happy to hear that your family is well, Lord Hill,” Charles was telling the old Lord Chancellor, smiling sweetly at him. “But do tell, my lord, how is Robert Bailly? He’s still your secretary, is he not? Oh, Erik, he has such beautiful handwriting – perfectly neat, ideal symmetry, I’ve always admired it. Oh, but you’ll get the chance to see for yourself when Lord Hill sends you a formal invitation to the Council meeting – Mr. Bailly personally writes all Lord Hill’s correspondence, doesn’t he?”

“Indeed.” Lord Hill nodded, throwing an uneasy glance at Erik.

“Well, Lord Lehnsherr bought the Iris Estate, that’s what, twenty, twenty-five square miles of land? God, Erik.” He laughed. “I daresay you’d be getting a _lot_ of letters from the Council, all of them written, no doubt, by Mr. Bailly’s expert hand. You must show them to me, or I shall be jealous.”

“I have yet to receive any, my dear,” Erik replied, smiling, and making a good show of not noticing Lord Hill’s glaring discomfort. “But I promise that when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Soon now, I expect?” Charles turned his innocent smile at Hill. “Isn’t that correct, Lord Hill?”

“Quite – quite so,” the older man stammered and pulled at his cravat in an obvious betrayal of his nervousness. “Oh, the tea is ready – do excuse me, I’m dying for a fresh cup.”

Erik had bought the estate two months ago, specifically for the purpose of becoming a member of the City Council. The membership was automatically extended to all landowners, but until now, the Chancellor had been very reluctant to respond appropriately, even though Erik had made his lawyers forward all the necessary documents weeks ago. Whether it was his status as a newcomer or something else, so far Erik had been stonewalled at every turn. He supposed there was always an excuse to keep an ambitious foreigner away.

Now, the honorable Lord Chancellor would have no choice but to set the motion forward. Erik was one of them in every sense now. Lord Xavier might be young and airheaded and care more about something as whimsical as a beautiful piece of handwriting, but Lord Hill couldn’t doubt that Erik would glean all the information he needed from his husband’s exuberant babbling. Moreover, were Charles to express his concerns to someone else, for however silly a reason, Lord Hill’s opponents would no doubt find a way to use them against him.

The side benefit of this was that Charles himself could hardly be suspected of anything more profound than being giddy about his new husband – not an entirely unnatural state of being for an easily-excitable fourteen-year-old boy who only cared about latest fashions and ball invitations and had no interest, let alone any expertise, in politics.

It was nicely done, and Erik couldn’t help but applaud silently, but Charles was already moving on to a new target. He was acting so smitten that Erik sometimes jolted with pangs of worry.

What if it wasn’t an act? What if Charles really—

But no, surely, that was impossible. Erik had heard stories about prisoners who fell in love with their captors and always thought them weak-willed, lacking integrity to begin with. Charles didn’t strike him as such, but he was so very young. Who could tell what there was to expect?

“Erik creates the most amazing patterns with latten threads,” Charles was saying enthusiastically to Countess de Viollen. “He spins the thinnest thread you’ve ever seen – metallic, of course. It’s a marvel. But he lacks artistic direction, which is a shame. Perhaps your niece could give him some instruction?”

The older woman was gazing at Charles favorably. Erik felt mildly sick.

“Charles,” he whispered, pulling the boy away by his elbow the moment they could get away from the lady, “did you just saddle me with an afternoon doing embroidery?”

Charles pulled himself free. “No; I just knocked a few years off your entrance petition to Barclay’s.”

Erik stared. Barklay’s was a gentlemen’s club that almost never admitted new members. Charles could have become one by birthright at any moment, but he had never bothered. Erik, on the other hand, needed it for the business connections he could make there, and, more importantly, for access to the club’s books. The whole thing had seemed rather hopeless.

“What does the countess have to do with it? It’s a gentlemen’s club.”

Charles sighed with the impatient air he got sometimes when Erik revealed yet another bit of ignorance regarding the inner workings of New World high society.

“The countess plays poker with seven of the ten members of the first circle,” Charles explained. “She is a very accomplished player, and they all owe her money – not laughable amounts of it, either. If anything will get you in, it’s a recommendation from her.”

Erik stared at him. Suddenly, it wasn’t clear if Charles was a genius or a malevolent spirit.

“Have you read Machiavelli?”

Charles actually grinned. “Why? Is my lord a fan?”

“Never mind,” Erik muttered. “You’re clearly evil in your own right.”

“Anything for you, my heart,” Charles said and batted his eyelashes.

Erik shifted uncomfortably. “Charles—”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lord; I’m well aware of your feelings toward me.” He pursed his lips. “Or lack thereof.”

That made one of them, Erik thought wryly, as he watched Charles turn his smile on someone else.

\--

Erik would have left it at that, but it wasn’t the only troubling thing about Charles as of late. Outside their busy social schedule, the boy was growing quieter and paler by the day, his appetite dwindling to the point of causing the cook an inordinate amount of distress.

Charles didn’t take kindly to concerned questions, however, and Erik was loath to press him. Every time he did, Charles redoubled his efforts at charming whoever was next on their list, not noticing how his smiles were getting more and more strained.

“He carries on like that, people will think you beat him,” Logan predicted gloomily.

It came to a head at the end of the second week. They were going home after an afternoon spent at Lady Summers’ musicale. Charles, so complimentary and eloquent when praising the performers, hadn’t uttered a word on the ride back, only staring out the window with a kind of unseeing look on his face, as Erik’s comfortable carriage made its way back toward their house on the outskirts of the port.

Once they arrived, Charles, who normally ignored any and all displays of gallantry on Erik’s part, had not only accepted his hand out of the carriage, but didn’t relinquish it, allowing Erik to steer him into the house, leaning heavily on his arm.

Patience had never been among Erik’s virtues.

“Charles, are you quite well?” he asked, resisting the temptation to scoop the boy into his arms and carry him in.

“I’m fine,” Charles said, straightening up at once and pulling away. “Just a minor headache.”

When Erik was five and still had toys, his favorite pastime was to pull them apart – with his hands, since his Gift hadn’t manifested yet – to see how they worked. It was the kind of unrelenting curiosity that wouldn’t let him be – he _had_ to know for the world to make sense. It was the only way he could control it.

Putting things back together had never been his forte, but then, they hadn’t been _that_ poor. He could always get another toy.

Hands tingling, he looked at the foot of the stairs where Charles was still standing – fragile, defenseless…

Untouchable.

Erik sighed, taking a step back, his hands locked tightly behind him. “If you wish to lie down for a bit, I’ll save you some strawberry tarts.”

Charles glanced at him in surprise, making Erik wonder if he had ever been excused from his duties over something so minor as a headache – or, indeed, at all.

“Thank you,” Charles said so quietly, Erik had to strain to hear. “I’ll – uh. Yes, please. If I may.”

Later, when Erik came in to check on him, Charles was lying on his bed, on top of the covers, staring up at the ornate ceiling.

“It’s been hard keeping my shields up,” he confessed without prompting.

Erik stilled, then came closer to the bed, sitting down beside Charles. “Are you ill? Should I—”

“No.” Charles shook his head, his eyes sliding closed. “I just need more practice, I think.”

Erik didn’t know if Charles wanted to be touched, or even if Erik’s very presence was making him feel worse. He took a chance and wrapped his fingers around Charles’s wrist, taking his pulse. It was too fast, but Charles looked pale, not feverish.

“We mostly stayed at the mansion,” Charles was saying, his speech slurred slightly, as though he was fighting through extreme exhaustion. “Before. Mother’s parties were… exuberant, but there was time in-between. And I’ve never been the center of attention for so long. These people now, their curiosity… It’s like they’re constantly trying to strip me naked.”

“You should have said something.” Erik couldn’t help the reproach in his tone, however mild. “ _I’m_ not a mind reader, Charles. Did you really think I wouldn’t care? We could have taken things more slowly.”

The dark lashes trembled, revealing two slits of troubled blue, as Charles turned toward him, a weak smile on his lips. “We had to do it now; you know that, don’t you? We couldn’t waste time if you want these people to truly accept you. We’re a demanding bunch, my lord Erik.”

“Screw those people,” Erik said with feeling, making Charles laugh, as he always did when Erik swore. “Charles, this marriage might look like a sham to you or your stepfather or the rest of them, but it’s not one for me. I took an oath to protect you and take care of you. I won’t have you risk your health to advance my social career.”

Charles peered at him for a moment, then shook his head, as though having thought better of the first response that came to him. All he said was, “I’ll get better. You don’t have to worry. I just need some practice. You’re sweet to care, though. I wasn’t…” He exhaled. “It was unexpected.”

_What were you expecting?_ Erik fumed silently. _That I’d treat you like Marko? Ours might not have been a love match, but good God, Charles, did you really think I’m the same kind of monster—_

Charles was sleeping.

Erik sighed, rose to his feet quietly, and went in search of Logan. He was suddenly longing for a ruthless sparring session – he didn’t think they’d need swords.

\--

“It’s because you never had a pet,” Azazel said, both of them staring down at the blueprints. “You never learned how it works. You feed and pamper them, and they purr and fetch.”

“I thought I had you for that.”

Azazel glared at him, but didn’t take the bait. “You should have gotten a dog.”

_A cat,_ Erik thought. _An independent, capricious little bastard._

Out loud, he said, “Charles is not a pet.”

“More’s the pity,” Azazel drawled, unimpressed. “He’s not your pet, he’s not your lover, he’s definitely not your husband in any sense that matters.”

“The law says—”

“The law doesn’t give you instructions about what to _do_ with him, though.” Azazel smirked. “And, from what I hear, you’re doing a terrific job figuring that out.”

Erik scowled down at the topographic map of the county and didn’t reply.

“I could help,” Azazel offered smoothly. “He’s not that young, actually – you’re just squeamish. I’ve seen him; he’d make a lovely pet. I could have him trained for you in a week – well, maybe two. I always liked them feisty—”

The sword was drawn so quickly, he had to teleport out of its way. Erik was already turning around, grabbing at him almost before he’d materialized, pressing a dagger between Azazel’s ribs, the point breaking the fabric of his shirt.

“You will never touch him or come close to him without my permission,” he hissed into Azazel’s face. “Understood?”

He let his elbow fall, freeing the other man’s windpipe.

“Fucking Christ,” Azazel wheezed. “Can’t you take a joke, Lehnsherr?”

Erik let him go, summoning his weapon back from where it fell and straightening his clothes. “Not about this.”

“Fine. No jibes about your property.”

“He’s not my _property,_ ” Erik growled.

“Really? So, if I checked, he wouldn’t be locked up in your mansion right now while you attend to your own affairs?”

Erik glanced away. If everything had gone well, Charles was taking a walk with Raven in the Central park right now. Under Logan’s supervision, of course, but that was for Charles’s own safety; no one could blame Erik for—

Azazel was smirking at him. “Let me know if you change your mind, my lord.”

Erik sighed, shaking his head in exasperation, and pointed at the blueprints again. “If you want to prove you’re a better engineer than I am, here’s your chance.”

“The first all-metal bridge,” Azazel intoned pensively, a frown on his face. “The City Council will never approve it.”

Erik shrugged, reaching for a pencil. “Not if we don’t convince them, no, so stop pestering me about Charles. We’ve got work to do.”

\--

But later, when he came home, Charles was still beaming, giddy with happiness and radiant after the day he’d spent outdoors with his sister. And for the first time, as Erik looked at him, he understood what Azazel had meant when he said ‘I’ve seen him.’

Because Charles was beautiful.

Incredibly young, but already breathtaking to an almost immoral degree. He stood out from the rest the way a real flame would from its likeness, captured in a painting.

Erik wondered if he’d been consciously avoiding acknowledging that fact.

The revelation must have shown on his face; Logan leaned into him to whisper in his ear, “Shall I meet you in the gymnasium later?”

Erik gave him a sideways look. “If you don’t mind.”

Logan bristled. “You made me trail him all day. He was fucking _smiling_ at me, like—” He gritted his teeth, biting down the rest of it. “I won’t be careful tonight, your lordship.”

“Good,” Erik said. He didn’t want careful. He wanted an excuse to unleash all his pent-up frustration, to switch his mind off. Logan had been a soldier before Erik was even born; he’d give Erik the violence he was so desperately craving.

“Raven brought me some books from home,” Charles was saying, oblivious, smiling at them. Either his shields were back to their full capacity or he was still too giddy to notice anything. At another time, it would have broken Erik’s heart. “You won’t mind if I use your study to read for a while?”

“Of course not,” Erik replied, giving him a tight smile in return. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.” Charles beamed, clutching the precious books to his chest.

Erik caught Logan’s eyes. “An hour after dinner. Don’t be late.”

Still looking after Charles, Logan grumbled, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

\--

Every part of Erik’s body was aching and bruised the next morning. He thought of Logan, who healed whether he wanted to or not, and smirked.

No one had ever said Erik was a nice person.

6.

_He’s surrounded by burning metal. Wave after wave of scorching heat washes over him, burning his skin, melting his bones, red and gold and pulsing like a piece of the sun. He can’t move, can’t breathe. He reaches with his power to push at the metal trap, longing for the coolness of the blue sky, but he’s helpless – the metal doesn’t respond, crowding him. It rains liquid metal, searing droplets covering him whole – every motion hurts, why, why isn’t he dead yet, he should be, he should have been, there’s no escape, no relief…_

_Please don’t go, please don’t go. Father, please!.._

Erik sat up on the bed abruptly, breathing hard, sweat trickling down between his collarbones. It was blissfully cool in the dark, a chilly draft pulling from the half-open window. There was no smell of fire or burning flesh. It was all a dream, just a dream – overly vivid, realistic, and frightening in the sheer force of it, perhaps, but still only a—

_Charles!_

Erik threw the covers back, jumping to his feet. Not his dream – he’d never had dreams so intense in his entire life, and this one didn’t belong to him.

In his bed, Charles was thrashing violently, moaning in agony, caught in the same trap Erik had only just escaped.

Erik crossed the room in two long strides, caught the boy’s shoulder, and shook him. “Charles! Charles, wake up! Wake up!”

Charles’s eyes flew open, but Erik could see in the light of a single candle that they were wild with fear and pain, the blackness of his pupils eclipsing the blue almost entirely. He didn’t wake up even now, trying to wriggle out of Erik’s hold, pushing and kicking with his teeth gritted tightly, breath coming out in short, harsh gasps.

“Charles, that’s enough!” Erik shook him again, but Charles only fought harder. In the end, desperate that it would never end, Erik gripped both his wrists in one hand, and slapped Charles hard across the face.

The sound rang loudly in the quietness of the house.

Charles froze in his arms, and Erik felt his hand sting. Horrified, he looked down to see Charles blink a few times in shock, coherency trickling back into his gaze. He looked up, tears filling his eyes, overflowing, streaming down unchecked.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” Erik uttered hoarsely, his hands shaking as he cradled Charles’s face. “I’m so, so sorry. You wouldn’t – I didn’t know what else to do.”

Charles trembled and deflated in his hold, sinking into the mess of sheets and blankets. He murmured something too softly to catch.

“What?” Erik bent lower. “I’m sorry, what did you—”

“Sorry, too,” Charles whispered. “Telepathy… not so amazing, is it?”

Erik wanted to reassure him, but his chest was still heavy with the smoke he hadn’t inhaled, his limbs tired from a struggle he’d never really been in. Charles looked into his face and bowed his head, shuddering.

Erik stood up to fetch a glass of water. Charles took it without looking at him and drank hungrily, his body cooling down, still in shock after the nightmare.

“At home,” Charles spoke softly after a while, his voice only barely gaining strength, “I was alone in the entire wing. So – so that I couldn’t do this to anyone.”

“Charles—”

Charles shook his head. “I should have warned you.” He was staring resolutely at his feet. “But I – I’m afraid to sleep alone,” he confessed miserably, his lips quivering. He looked so impossibly young that Erik’s heart clenched. “I’m afraid of this, too. It’s been almost a month since we… I thought maybe it was okay now. Maybe I could—”

He sighed, shaking his head. “There – there’s a room in the attic,” he said lifelessly. “If you put me up there, it should be safe—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Erik said, surprising himself with the vehemence in his voice.

Charles looked up, startled. “But—”

“I’m not exiling you for having a nightmare, Charles.”

The very thought of Charles being left to deal with this alone was turning Erik’s stomach. There was fear and doubt written all over Charles’s face, but there was also a desperate, aching hope he couldn’t hide. His hands were curled into fists on the bed, grabbing the crumpled sheets.

“But I hurt you,” Charles whispered.

“No.” Erik knelt before him. “ _I_ hurt _you_.” He cradled the side of Charles’s face softly. “And I’m sorry. We’ll have to find a way for me to wake you without hitting you. I don’t want to hurt you ever again.”

Charles’s eyes were huge in his pale face. “Erik…”

And then, suddenly, he flung himself into Erik’s arms, burying his face in Erik’s neck, clinging to him desperately. Dry sobs were wrecking his body.

“I’m sorry. Erik, I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to – You were so kind to me. I couldn’t – I _can’t_ control it, it just happens. I’m tired; I’m so tired. I just want it to stop.”

“Shh.” Erik held him close, his own eyes stinging. “It’s going to be all right, Charles.”

“So tired,” Charles murmured into his neck, “always – always alone.”

He didn’t resist when Erik lifted him up and carried to his own bed. It was rumpled, too, but didn’t resemble a battlefield the way Charles’s did.

Charles lay down without protest, his limbs becoming heavier as the tension had finally started to bleed out of him. He watched with bright eyes as Erik moved around, collecting the blankets, before lying down beside Charles, curling his body around him and looping an arm over Charles’s waist.

They stayed in silence for a while, sharing the warmth.

“How long did he stay conscious?” Erik asked quietly.

Charles snuggled closer to him, his hand finding Erik’s, fingers cold as ice. “Not long.” He drew a deep breath. “But I – I managed to project my mind into his body, holding on to him. For hours.”

He shuddered. Erik kissed his temple.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered again.

“Stop.” Erik pulled him closer and kissed his eyes, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He had never been an overly affectionate person, but something in Charles tugged at the strings he didn’t think he had. He couldn’t remember being that maudlin over any of his lovers, and Charles wasn’t even one. Charles was—

Charles turned toward him instinctively, like a street cat – seeking to be petted, not asking but hoping not to be kicked. Erik kissed the tip of Charles’s nose, eliciting a small, surprised laugh.

“We’ll find a way to deal with it,” Erik said softly. He could feel the hope awakening, turning toward him like a flower following the sun. It was empowering and frightening, and Erik never wanted to yield this place to anyone else. “I won’t leave you to deal with this alone. I promise, Charles.”

Charles didn’t reply. Spent and finally feeling safe, he was sleeping, the telepathic echo of his contentment and gratitude covering the room like a blanket.

\--

Charles had difficulty meeting his eyes the next morning, which Erik found infinitely entertaining. He kept his amusement to himself, however – nightmares were not a laughing matter, and Erik knew that better than most, so he gave Charles the space he needed.

It must have been the right thing to do – because later that day Charles wandered into the gymnasium where Erik was practicing sword fighting with Logan. Charles sat quietly on the bench by the wall, watching with avid interest. Erik couldn’t resist showing off just a bit, for which Logan promptly punished him, his blade deftly cutting the lace at the collar of Erik’s shirt.

“Pathetic,” Logan gritted out.

Erik snorted but started fighting in earnest, banishing every distraction from his mind and watching Logan’s eyes. He was aiming for that rare state of being ‘above the fight,’ when sequences and separate motions stopped registering and the duel became more of a dialogue, where lines and words didn’t matter, only the underlying sense. There was no poetry in killing, but there was in this, in the perfect, precise dance of well-trained bodies carved into shape by hundreds of fights and battles. It had never gone away, the excitement Erik felt at the ability to meet Logan’s challenge, to hold his own against arguably the best fighter to walk the Earth. Erik’s Gift gave him power over Logan, but this was a different kind of joy – the purely physical triumph of a warrior.

“Not bad,” Logan grouched, and knocked Erik’s blade with his own, ripping a clear, ringing sound out of it.

Erik felt his lips stretch in a feral grin as he listened to the metal sing.

“That was magnificent,” Charles breathed out when Erik sauntered back toward the bench, reaching for a cloth. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

His eyes were very wide; his chest was rising and falling rapidly, as though he’d held his breath for a long time. Erik resisted the urge to preen and busied himself with a mug of water instead.

Charles was just a boy; his admiration shouldn’t feel so flattering. Never mind that Erik hadn’t longed for anyone’s praise since his mother died, and she would most certainly not have approved.

“You want a go?” Erik asked, eyeing the boy in-between gulps of water.

Charles looked between him and Logan, smiled with wicked sweetness, and shook his head. “It doesn’t seem necessary.”

Erik wanted to ask him what he meant, but Logan snorted and stalked off to the far corner, picking up a polishing cloth and beginning to clean his blade.

“May I?” Charles asked almost tentatively.

Confused, Erik thought he wanted to look at the sword more closely, and handed it to him, hilt-forward. But Charles only took it to lay it carefully aside, utterly uninterested, and began examining Erik’s hand instead. His fingers ran up and down Erik’s palm, feeling the calluses and broken nails and too-dry skin, sliding over every crease doggedly as though his eyes alone couldn’t gather enough data.

Charles’s hands in contrast were smaller and softer, shaped by reins and quills and lacking scars like the one that stretched from the underside of Erik’s wrist over his forearm. It was the reason Erik wore gloves whenever possible; his hands didn’t look like those of a noble.

He wanted to pull away, suddenly embarrassed, but Charles was kneading the scar gently, following its drunk, torn puncture line with his fingers.

“Did metal do this?” he asked quietly.

Erik sighed. “Yes. During the campaign in Poland.”

The scene was clear in his mind as he gazed down at his mutilated hand – the iron tang of blood hitting his nostrils; the smoke from the fires drifting from a burned village; the rotten straw under his cheek where he was lying in the mud, wounded and helpless, left for dead, and a hussar who’d lost his horse but not his sword standing over him, sneering in the bloodthirsty way of those drunk on battle.

“He wanted to chop my wrist off, but his blade slipped,” Erik muttered, pulling himself out of the past with an effort. “I was mostly unconscious at the time.”

Just conscious enough to deflect the blow with his power. He’d woken up back at the camp hospital days later, none the wiser about what happened to his would-be butcher.

Charles seemed to be mesmerized, studying Erik’s hand as though under some kind of spell. “It’s true, then. You were a soldier; you killed people. How many?”

“I never counted,” Erik snapped. “My hands were awash with blood, if that’s what you’re asking. I took a lot of lives.”

He pulled his hand free and grabbed Charles by the chin instead, expecting him to flinch away. The boy had called him a killer the first time they met, after all. It was time he’d known exactly how unclean Erik’s hands were; if he was going to ask any more stupid questions—

Charles was gazing up at him intrepidly, eyes dark and serene, undisturbed as waters of an oxbow lake at the peak of summer. He seemed to be leaning up into the touch.

For a moment, Erik was struck by a dual image, seeing his own crimson fingerprints all over the flawless pale skin. His free hand had found its way to the back of Charles’s neck, holding him in place, the very stem of his life so fragile, so easily crushed, so completely defenseless…

Erik blinked, and the image shifted. Charles was still there, peering at him with a mixture of intense curiosity and strange pride, the source of which Erik couldn’t begin to guess. No fear.

“You little imp,” Erik muttered, his thumb running over Charles’s cheekbone in an unconscious caress. “You could drive an army of men to distraction.”

It would have been a perfect act if not for the bashful, slightly incredulous grin, and the treacherous blush that spilled over the boy’s features. “Pardon me? I didn’t quite hear that.”

Erik laughed and pushed him away, ruffling his hair. “Lying is unbecoming, Charles.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “I should take better care of what I say around you – although you certainly have enough mischief in you to lead more than one poor soul astray.”

“Why would I do that, my lord?”

Erik lifted an eyebrow. “Because you’re a brat?”

Charles dimpled as though it was the greatest compliment he’d ever received. “Do you still want to give me a lesson?”

“Oh, yes.” Erik reached for his sword again. “I’d say you deserve one more than anyone else I’ve ever known. Guard.”

Charles took the nearest blade from the rack without looking.

He was beaten quite thoroughly in no time at all, but he never stopped grinning.

\--

Charles slept peacefully that night, but Erik had to shake him out of a bad dream again during the following one. It wasn’t quite as violent as the first time, and Erik was woken by the distressed little sounds Charles was making rather than by an invasion into his own dream space. He got an impression of dark corridors and a towering black figure pushing someone down a flight of stairs before Charles woke up – this time, instantly.

He let out a shuddering breath, but pulled away when Erik reached for him.

“I’m fine,” he said, curling into himself.

Erik left him be.

7.

The shipment of ore came in the morning, and Erik went out early to inspect it. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Azazel, but of the two of them, Erik was the one with an uncanny sense for metal concentration. If their partners in Brazil had had the unfortunate thought of tricking them with a lower quality supply, Erik would spot it right away – not that anyone in their right mind would stage such an attempt.

The inspection turned into a series of meetings with port authorities and customs and even the Watch, and by the time Erik was finally able to extricate himself and turn toward home, the sun had almost set.

He decided to take a walk, long though it was, to clear his head, but he quickly regretted the decision. The smell of drying seaweed was strong in the air, mixed with the scent of stale waters and sewers – there had been some sort of accident down the main port lane earlier that day. Erik wasn’t as fond of the sea as some, but he didn’t dislike it, either. That particular night, though, he spent quite a few minutes contemplating that perhaps the spoiled aristocracy of the City had a point when choosing their dwellings far from the shoreline.

As he walked past the poorer quarters toward his own residence higher up on a hill, he was trying to turn some of the conversations he’d had that day in amusing anecdotes for Charles’s benefit. The boy seemed a bit down still, but he perked up whenever Erik talked about his business. Erik didn’t know if it was a good sign but decided not to look the gift horse in the mouth.

It was astonishing, he thought with a wry smile, how quickly Charles’s well-being had crawled to the top of his priority list. He’d always intended to be civil, but he’d never expected to feel that tingling sense of tenderness when he woke up in the morning to find Charles asleep in the other bed, his hair in glorious disarray on the pillow and the soft sounds he made through the night evened out, quieted by the sweet morning slumber.

Erik had never expected to be consciously aware of Charles’s moods at any time of day if they spent it together. Part of it must have come from Charles’s telepathy, but Erik caught himself _wanting_ to know. Not in the sense he’d care for a child’s needs, and not as he would for a lover, always with a thought in mind of getting what he wanted.

He cared as he would for a very dear, very special kind of friend – the kind who, unlike Logan or Azazel, needed him.

Not that Charles was helpless, by any means, it was just that—

Ah. That must be it. Charles couldn’t be self-sufficient by definition, given that, currently, he was completely dependent on Erik in every sense. Could that, perhaps, explain Erik’s sudden drift to perplexing… mushiness? He’d never had anyone to take care of in this sense before...

And Charles was perfect, as charges went. Clever, quiet, kind... a little bland, perhaps, if Erik was honest with himself, but given the circumstances—

The doors of the stables sprung open, nearly knocking Erik off his feet, and a giant grey horse dashed out, his powerful legs biting into the cobblestones with a malevolent intent to demolish them.

With a start, Erik recognized Morgenstern, the meanest, most tempestuous animal he’d ever met. He had been a gift from the Duke of Toledo, and Erik had later thought that the man hadn’t so much been making a gracious gesture as trying to get rid of a monster. It had taken six stable hands to coax the horse into the airship, and, once on firm ground again, he wouldn’t allow any rider upon his back except for, reluctantly, Logan. Erik could probably handle him, but he had better things to do than tame stubborn horses.

Now, he was staring in shock after the horse speeding down the street in a mad gallop, asking himself if he was hallucinating. Morgenstern was carrying a rider, one who looked as though he was in control, and what was more – Erik recognized him.

It was Charles.

Noting the direction, Erik ran into the disheveled stables to find two panicked grooms inside.

“What in the hell is going on?” Erik demanded, his hands clenching into fists.

“Terribly sorry, your lordship,” the younger man, Clam, managed, glancing fearfully in Erik’s face. “But Lord Charles, he was just here. We told him about the horse, see, but he said – he just—”

“Wouldn’t listen to no one,” Gary, the older groom, added, wiping his sweaty hands on his breeches. “Had us saddle the damn beast and was off, in a hurry to break his neck or run away—”

Clam squealed, and Gary had finally taken in Erik’s face. At another time, it would have been comical, the way the realization of to whom he was talking seeped in. At the moment, though, Erik didn’t have time for that.

“My horse,” he ordered briskly. “Now.”

They obeyed him instantly, but that didn’t mollify Erik in the slightest, though his anger wasn’t directed at them.

_Charles_. Erik’s hands shook with fury. He couldn’t fathom it. After the way Erik had treated him, after everything he’d done to make him comfortable, that he would run away seemed unthinkable. He was ruining his own reputation, yes, but he also brought shame on Erik’s house. That Charles would lie to him, would _betray_ him, when even now Erik was worried sick about the damn horse killing him—

Charles flew like the wind, but Erik could easily follow his path by the looks of horror on the faces of pedestrians, clinging to the walls in their haste to make way for a terrifying horse and his mad rider. Whenever the houses yielded space to a square or a crossroads, Erik caught glimpses of Charles, plastered to Morgenstern’s back, riding as recklessly as if the devil was after him.

Which, in a manner of speaking, there was, and Erik bit his lip furiously. It _stung_ – he’d never so much as raised his voice at the boy. How could Charles do this to both of them?

Erik jumped over a cart that had toppled over, the grocer’s cursing trailing after him; ducked his head under a low-hanging sign with scissors on it, almost taking his eye out; barely avoided colliding with a maid carrying a heavy laundry basket; and pressed his heels into his mount’s sides urgently, egging him on.

By now Charles’s destination had become perfectly clear, and Erik very nearly wailed in frustration and hurt, for there was no misunderstanding. The boy was headed for one of the new airship towers – he really was running away, making Erik a joke in front of all the people to whom he had so meticulously introduced him. How he didn’t die in the process Erik didn’t know, his heart seizing as he saw from a distance an insane leap Charles threw his horse into. The boy really was out to break his neck.

By the time Erik reached the foot of the stairs, riding right past the astonished gatekeepers, Charles had already disappeared past the first landing, taking steps at a run, flying up. Erik swore under his breath and jumped off the horse, grabbing the railing and climbing up the spiral stairs as fast as he could, his feet swallowing the metallic lace of the steps.

On and on and on, until finally he spilled onto the top landing, blessedly empty except for a group of people about to board the airship at the far end, and – Charles running toward them.

Erik stopped and reached for the metal around him. Winded from the climb, betrayed, angry, hurt, he didn’t have time or wish for finesse.

A thin band of cast iron rose from the intricate pattern of the landing floor like a snake to the sound of a charmer’s flute. A small wave of Erik’s hand and it sprang forward, wrapping around Charles’s ankle, and jerked back, dropping him face-first against the metallic bars.

Charles gasped loudly, a moan of pain torn from his lungs, as he swiveled around, confused, staring first at his ankle and then up at the man slowly approaching him.

“Erik,” Charles breathed out, his eyes wide. “No. Please.”

Erik sneered, about to say something harsh, his anger flaring up at the sight of Charles’s pointless struggle with the improvised restraint. The little traitor was defying him even now—

“ _Charles_!”

A sharp shriek pierced the air, and Erik’s head snapped up.

One of the elder women helping someone into the airship’s boarding pad was pushed back suddenly, and a young girl jumped onto the landing between her and her companion.

Raven.

Erik blinked.

“Raven,” Charles called out hoarsely. He was red in the face, breathing hard, sweat streaming along his temple from the run and the fight. He managed to pull himself up to his knees, still tugging ineffectually at the band of iron holding him prisoner.

Raven pulled her skirts up and ran toward him like a wild, desperate thing and not at all a properly conditioned young lady of rank. Charles opened his arms and she flung herself at him, both of them clutching at each other.

“Charles! Charles.” Raven was sobbing into his shoulder. “He said I’d never see you again. He said—”

“Shh, I know.”

“He wouldn’t even let me say goodbye! He said he’d tell you after I was gone.”

“Kitty found me.” Charles’s voice was soothing, his hands running down her back in a practiced, easy motion. “Just in time, too.”

Raven pulled back slightly to look at him. “I’m so happy to see you – oh, Charles, I couldn’t bear to not see you one last time before I’m gone.”

“You won’t be gone forever, Raven.” Charles gave her a shaky smile. “It’s just a school.”

“In Switzerland! He promised not to send me away, he promised!”

“I know.” Charles’s hands curl briefly into fists. “I’ll write to you every day, Raven – you have my word. And I’ll get you out as soon as I can.”

She sagged in his arms. “I’m going to miss you. I love you so much, Charles.”

He swiped the tears off her cheeks gently. “I love you too, darling. It’ll be okay.” He tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Who knows, you might finally learn some decent French.”

She laughed through her tears, involuntary and bright. “Better than you, anyway.”

Raven looked up by accident, spotting Erik for the first time. She looked back at Charles, and her eyes widened as she took in their positions and that Charles was bound to the floor by the metal.

“Oh.” Her lips trembled. “I got you in trouble. Oh, Charles, I’m so sorry.” She turned her pleading eyes on Erik. “Please, don’t hurt him, sir; it’s all my fault. Please.”

Erik, who had been watching the scene in a blank stupor, had finally come to his senses.

He lifted a hand subtly, the motion stiff and alien, and the metal of the floor released Charles. The boy hissed softly as the metal trap around his ankle retreated, and Erik wondered briefly if he’d broken any bones in his anger, but Charles pushed up to his feet, offering his hands to Raven. They stood there, looking at each other with sadness and desperation, as Raven’s chaperones slowly approached, sour expressions on their faces.

The taillight of the airship was lit, a steady glow of gas-fed flame through a thick red glass. It was about to depart.

Erik turned around slowly and started back for the stairs.

\--

The way home was silent.

They rode slowly along the sleepy streets, cool wind blowing from the ocean, drizzle making Erik’s coat heavier. Charles had apparently dashed out without so much as a jacket and was shivering now, shirt soaked through and silk waistcoat hanging pathetically off his frame.

Does he know, Erik wondered, how much that ruined piece of fabric cost? Erik didn’t know why he cared or where the thought had come from – only that he was still mad at Charles.

He grew madder still as he watched Charles’s hand pat Morgenstern’s neck softly, his eyes glazing over slightly as he murmured something into the horse’s ear.

Of course. Telepathy. That was how he’d been able to control the crazy beast.

For some reason, it only made Erik grind his teeth harder.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said finally, shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering. “Kurt was supposed to send her to school in Boston, s-so I c-could visit her, and she could c-come home. But of course he lied; it was just a t-trick. He always p-planned to send her away; he didn’t even give us a chance to see each other b-before. If Raven’s maid didn’t find me… God, she’ll probably be whipped, the poor g-girl. I only wanted—”

“Charles,” Erik cut him off coldly. “Do I look like I’m interested?”

Charles glanced at him, bit his lip, and said nothing.

They were expected – Logan had sent out torchmen to either end of the street. The swordsman himself was waiting at the gates, arms folded over his chest as he scowled, taking them in. Erik wasn’t in the mood to enlighten him. He marched straight into his study, locking the door behind him.

\--

He woke up to the pitch-black darkness of his bedroom. For a moment, Erik couldn’t figure out why he was awake, but then he felt it – a dipping of the mattress, a tug on the covers.

Charles, crawling into Erik’s bed and trying to both be unobtrusive and make himself comfortable.

Erik wanted to shove him off – he deserved to be shoved – but only suppressed a groan at his own inability to do the rational thing and barked, “What the hell are you doing?”

Charles froze, caught.

Then he pulled up until his face was level with Erik’s, invisible in the dark. When he spoke, his voice was thick with tears, even though Erik knew, inexplicably, that none were spilled.

“I’m so sorry, Erik – please forgive me? There was no time for me to – please? I’m so, so sorry.”

His whole frame was trembling with the effort to control his emotions, but they were leaking all over the place. His grief over his parting with his sister, so unfair and so painful; the mortification at having offended Erik.

_Fear_.

Fear of being rejected, abandoned by the only ally he thought he had.

Erik let out an almighty sigh. The damn brat wasn’t playing fair; his very _existence_ was unfair.

“What possessed you to take Morgenstern, you idiot? You could have broken your neck.”

Charles gasped softly – relief, incredulity, hope. “I didn’t really look,” he muttered. “He looked… impressive. He’s really a nice horse once you get to know him.”

Erik refused, absolutely _refused,_ to laugh. “Go to sleep,” he sighed.

“Yes, Erik.” The smile was clear in Charles’s voice. He lowered himself on the bed, head on Erik’s shoulder.

Erik nudged him softly. “Something wrong with your bed?”

“I’m cold there.”

“Take another blanket.”

“I won’t wake the servants at this ungodly hour. It’s inhumane.”

Erik nudged him again, giving in to a grin. “What am I, a hot water bottle?”

“More like a hot brick,” Charles murmured, sleepy now that he’d gotten what he wanted. “You’re very firm.”

Erik snorted; there was no fighting it. He wrapped his arm around Charles, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Don’t do that again, all right?”

Charles snuggled in closer. “Promise.”

Erik sighed again, shaking his head in the dark. “Why don’t I believe you?”

Charles’s only answer was a warm, shapeless thought, fuzzy with sleep.

8.

Later, Erik would think that he’d rather have a repeat of that night, with its mad chase and emotional turmoil – what followed after was so much more glum. The adrenaline and urgency and, later, fear of having angered his husband delayed the inevitable reaction Charles was bound to experience at Raven’s departure. Erik had witnessed the incredible measure of frankly unfashionable, tender love Charles had for his sister. Losing her like this, even temporarily, was a hard blow.

But it wasn’t until a week later that it truly sank in. Charles’s letters were returned unanswered with a copy of a paragraph from the school policy, written in someone’s precise, strict hand.

_No communication allowed between the students and anyone on the outside, except for their parents or guardians_.

It wasn’t all that uncommon among the European boarding schools, but Charles was devastated.

“I promised her,” he said in a dull, defeated voice. “I promised her, and now I can’t. Oh God, how alone she must feel… She must think I betrayed her, forgotten her – oh, my poor Raven!”

For days, Erik had watched him warily, almost expecting another mad dash for freedom – this time, an actual flight. Logan had attached himself to Charles’s side, obviously driven by the same suspicions.

But days passed, and Charles withdrew further into himself. It was as though the last desperate wind had been knocked out of his sails. He lost his appetite, eating only enough to ward off questions. He mostly kept quiet when they went out – a rare occasion now that the season was winding down and the bridge project demanded more and more of Erik’s time. When at home, Charles spent most of his time sitting on the roof, watching the ships come and go under a thick layer of grey clouds that looked like a heavy lead bowl upturned over the bay.

In all honesty, Erik didn’t have time or any desire to indulge Charles’s moods. It was understandable that the boy was sad, but the world was a cruel place. Charles would simply have to get over it the same way everyone else did.

Erik had done his duty by Charles, and sure, perhaps there was little joy to be found in Charles’s current circumstances, but in truth, his situation could have been a lot worse. One couldn’t tell from Erik’s demeanor, but, while he was strict, he was also a fair master, and so far he was proving to be a downright benevolent husband. There were those who might have whipped Charles for his latest escapade and who would have been in their right. Erik was, by certain accounts, extremely liberal.

He didn’t owe Charles anything beyond what he was already giving him. They had known each other for too little a time to be friends, Erik’s unexpected fits of sentiment notwithstanding.

Except, Charles was now part of his household, and Erik couldn’t avoid acknowledging that.

Charles’s mood seemed to be infectious. Logan was more grouchy and unpleasant than usual, which was saying something, and the servants had once again acquired that look of sheer fright when Erik’s gaze happened to stop on them. The cheerful, nonsensical chatter of maids that used to annoy him early in the morning was now absent; the kitchen staff seemed positively grim, the younger cooks appearing almost pathetic, dropping pans with sizzling oil and smashing dishes. No matter how much effort they seemed to put in it, the food was bland more often than not, and Erik could almost sympathize with how Charles pushed his plate away. In the stables, the horses became more capricious than ever, making the grooms snappy and rude, and twice in one week Logan had to break up a fight.

Erik would almost suspect that Charles was projecting his misery, but somehow he was certain that wasn’t the case. If anything, it was the opposite.

Only now did Erik begin to understand that a happy Charles or even a mildly content Charles had been a blessing. It wasn’t necessarily pertaining to his telepathy, although it must have been an enhancing factor.

Charles, when he was having a truce with the world, couldn’t help but reach out to people, spread the fortune. A cheeky smile here; a compliment or a joke there. A happy Charles was all over the house – dimpling at the maids and making them blush; asking thoughtful questions of Logan; talking to horses as though they were his long-lost friends, which was a little odd, but somehow still endearing.

Erik himself, of course, was not affected in the least; he was far too disciplined. Charles preferred to keep to his own side of the bedroom these days, and it was a relief. Sharing a bed with someone wasn’t actually all that comfortable, and Charles had pointy elbows and tossed and turned a lot besides, especially when his sleep was troubled. He only ever quieted when Erik held him close, and that was a chore, wasn’t it? Erik could barely get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep some nights. Now he was finally able to get some proper rest.

Days passed. He didn’t feel particularly rested.

It became clear that measures had to be taken – for the sake of the entire household, of course.

A trip to the mall seemed like a weak effort, but it was the first time Charles had shown anything more than polite interest toward a suggestion in weeks. Erik wasn’t about to give up the opportunity.

The mall was a peculiar-looking building. An architectural genius by the name of Lee Perus claimed that the plans for the building were revealed to him in a dream by a fallen angel named Astolat, but he was also known to experiment liberally with alcohol and mind-altering substances, so no one cared to examine the claim. Nonetheless, quite unfathomably, the City Council had decided in favor of his project.

The work had progressed with unusual rapidity and, in the end, had only taken eight years. Once finished, the building looked like a huge replica of the Coliseum styled like a Constantinople bazaar and topped with a beautiful glass roof, the material for which was specially ordered and delivered from Venice.

Inside, three stores of elegant galleries were connected with whimsical bridges and magnificent marble staircases. The ground level contained an atrium decorated with sculptures; the first floor had a fountain that seemed all the more incredible for being elevated so far from the water source. The heart of the top floor was an exquisite garden, dressed with exotic plants that had been brought there from all over the world.

A column of solid metal five feet in diameter pierced the center of the building from the ground to the roof where it served as an anchor to a modified airship. It could no longer travel to long distances, or indeed anywhere farther than a couple of miles, but it functioned as a beautiful and highly fashionable restaurant called _The Steel Duck_. It made a full circle around the mall in the course of an hour, providing the guests with an exquisite view of the City from above. Some young ladies were known to faint out of sheer excitement during a course of a meal, and bribes were regularly used to secure reservations.

It was not quite safe – mishaps and small accidents happened often enough to become regular stuff for gossip – somewhat ridiculous, and gaudy. Needless to say, _The Steel Duck_ was extremely popular. And when Erik had first set foot in the City, even he had to admit that the mall, along with the floating extravagance, was quite a sight to behold.

The carriage delivered them neatly to the main entrance. Charles smiled and shook his head incredulously as he stepped out.

“I will never get used to this,” he murmured, and took Erik’s arm without additional prompting, distracted.

Originally, Erik’s plan had been to let Charles lead them to whatever shops or displays he found more interesting, but almost immediately his intentions were derailed.

No sooner had they stepped through the tall ornate doors that Erik spotted a group of tradesmen standing in front of a jewelry store, talking in agitated voices. There were enough familiar faces there that Erik felt the muscles in his arm tense instinctively, starting to veer Charles in the opposite direction—

“Lord Lehnsherr!”

Too late.

Erik suppressed a sigh and stopped, trying to assume a vaguely polite expression. He wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded, but at his side Charles seemed to be smiling civilly enough for both of them.

“Lord Lehnsherr, it’s such a fortune that you’re here,” the tradesman was saying in a low, slightly breathless voice, his heavy complexion making him pay for the exertion of rushing to Erik’s side. “Did you know of the new interdict the Lord Chancellor is proposing? If it comes to pass, I’m afraid our obligations to you concerning those ore shipments would be in peril—”

The merchant’s name was Henry Gruber, and, much as Erik didn’t enjoy the interruption, he couldn’t simply ignore the man who had been holding the position of the Head of the Merchants’ Guild for twelve years now. The news he brought also made Erik frown. It appeared more and more that soon he’d have no choice but to use his new position as a member of the City Council to put a leash on the Chancellor’s ambitions.

“That would be unfortunate,” Charles said in a melodic, mild tone, drawing attention to himself.

Gruber started, as if only just noticing that Erik wasn’t alone.

“My apologies, er—”

Red blotches appeared across Gruber’s face while Charles kept smiling pleasantly.

Erik sighed to himself even as he made introductions. It was awkward, having Charles meet his business partners – not that Erik didn’t trust their manners or comportment, but there was a certain element of potential embarrassment present for all involved.

A marriage between two men was a privilege of nobility. Gruber was a powerful man in his own right, and richer than half the nobles in the City. But while he could keep a harem of male lovers, he couldn’t marry one of them. Erik was aware that the tradition was considered more of a frivolity and decadence the further one went down the social ladder.

To cap it all, Charles’s age was doubly damnable. Boys like him were a dime a dozen in the brothels of Amsterdam or Rio de Janeiro, catering to a very specific, very spoiled clientele. Tradesmen, who could spend the better part of a year away from their families, were used to meeting boys like Charles – well-dressed, pampered, beautiful – under very particular circumstances only.

Gruber was struggling, and it showed. His colleagues were no better, so clearly torn between staring at Charles and being respectful to Erik that, at a different time, it would have been funny.

“Charles, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me for a while,” Erik said, turning his back on the tradesmen, shielding Charles from view to a degree. “I don’t think it will take long, but it sounds like an urgent matter—”

Charles lifted his hand to stop him, smiling. “My lord, I understand perfectly. It is a matter of business and as such important to you.”

“Quite.”

“Don’t worry; I can entertain myself. Do find me when you’re done.”

“Of course – Charles, wait. Take my purse; you don’t have any money.”

“Please, Erik. We are civilized people here.” The smile Charles gave him was sardonic. “I don’t need your money. If I want anything, I’ll just leave them your card.”

Erik felt the threat of a blush, as he so often did when Charles corrected him. “Do, then,” he said. “It would please me.”

Charles bowed to him, a smirk curving his lips. It wasn’t clear if he intended to take Erik’s order to heart and eat him out of house and home or ignore it altogether. He gave a courteous nod to the tradesmen before disappearing into the idle, frivolously dressed crowd of noble patrons taking their promenade at the mall.

Grinding his teeth, Erik turned his attention to averting the crisis.

\--

It took longer than he thought to work out a sensible plan of action and reassure his partners. By the time Erik was able to extricate himself, it was closer to four o’clock, and the crowd had thinned considerably as respectable ladies and gentlemen headed home to prepare for the evening engagements. Most of the people still window-shopping along the galleries were tourists observing their own schedules.

Erik looked around, soon realizing he’d made a strategic mistake not having arranged a meeting point with Charles. The boy could be anywhere. Theoretically, he could have even gone home, tired but probably not surprised at his husband’s lack of attention.

Somehow, though, Erik didn’t think Charles had left, so he began a meticulous search, hoping he’d be in luck sooner rather than later.

Luck, however, didn’t seem overly fond of him that day – the first thirty minutes of his search yielded no results whatsoever. Standing at the railing at the top floor, Erik was just about to reconsider the chances of Charles having gone home when he spotted him in the gallery below walking out of a bookshop.

_Of course._

Erik felt like hitting himself on the forehead. He’d been meaning to rectify his frankly abysmal lack of a library for some time now, for his own benefit as well as Charles’s, but had been too busy to even contemplate recreational reading. Charles, whose whole face had lit up at the sight of a small stack of favorite books Raven had brought him once, must have suffered greatly indeed.

Yet, oddly enough, his hands were conspicuously empty as he left the shop. Erik waited a moment to see if a servant carrying Charles’s purchases would follow, but none appeared. Charles walked toward the atrium, his gait uncharacteristically brusque, as though he couldn’t wait to put enough space between himself and the shop.

Frowning, Erik started down the stairs. Direct questioning would likely prove fruitless, considering the mood Charles seemed to be in. Satisfied to see the boy situating himself in front of the fountain, staring at it with meditative absorption, Erik paused for a moment, contemplating his options. Then, he headed straight for the shop.

The sign above the door read _Mr Roberts and Sons_.

Inside, it was dark, due not so much to lack of lighting as to the endless shelves of books, whose concentration per square foot seemed to be leaps higher than physically possible. Vaguely, Erik wondered if bookkeepers had a special talent to turn any space, no matter how big or well-lit, into a murky cave smelling of old parchment.

He made his way carefully toward the counter in the center, where a young clerk seemed to be entirely too preoccupied with his volume to notice he had a customer. _Ovid._ Erik scoffed. He mostly didn’t approve of poetry.

He cleared his throat, and the man jumped to his feet, revealing a tall, awkward complexion that, next to his mousy hair and eyes hidden behind spectacles made him look like an overgrown puppy that no one wanted to take from the tray.

“Sorry, sir. How can I help you?”

Erik considered him. “Are you Mr Roberts?”

“Er, no, s-sir,” the boy – for he was extremely young, now that Erik thought of it; no more than seventeen at the most – stammered. “I’m Hank McCoy. I work for Mr Roberts.”

“I see.” Erik measured him with a contemplative look. The boy wilted. “So, McCoy, tell me. That young man who was just here, do you know him?”

McCoy blinked in confusion, but almost immediately his face cleared. “You mean Lord Xavier? Yes, sir, I know him very well. He’s one of our most regular customers.”

Erik made a point to frown dubiously. “He didn’t seem to buy anything. Or perhaps he asked to have something delivered?”

McCoy’s cheeks colored, and he glanced away. “Er, no, sir. Not this time.”

“Hm.” Erik pursed his lips. “Perhaps your selection leaves something to be desired.”

“Oh, no, sir!” The boy’s head snapped up. “We offer the best selection in the City – some would say even in America. And if we don’t have something, we can always order it for our customers. In fact, Lord Xavier had ordered a number of volumes from us, and they are all here, if you’d care to look.”

He led Erik through the maze of bookshelves toward an old-looking cabinet, set out of the way, and opened it.

“See?” McCoy pointed at the top volume in a quite impressive stack. “ _On the Causes of Nature_ – Lord Xavier specifically asked for it, and here it is, a month before they’ve officially lifted the ban on it! Or this – _The Animal Kingdom. A Comprehensive Study_ , only just printed and straight from Heidelberg. Or—”

There were about two dozen books overall, most of them scientific texts along with some volumes on philosophy, and a few, to Erik’s surprise and amusement, adventure and romantic novels written by someone by the name of George Austere.

“It’s a woman,” McCoy told him sotto voce, as though taking Erik into his confidence. “Nobody wanted to print a lady’s novel, so she took a pseudonym. The publisher never suspected, and now, as she’s a bestselling author—”

Erik frowned, losing interest. “So if Lord Xavier ordered all these, why didn’t he buy them?”

McCoy’s face donned that trapped deer expression again, his cheeks stained unevenly red. “Ah, well, you see, he, er, he ordered them – _before_.”

He paused significantly, but Erik had no idea what he was talking about. “Before what?” he asked briskly.

“Before his marriage,” McCoy let out breathlessly, his flush deepening. “We hadn’t seen him since. When he came in today, I thought – but he said that his circumstances had changed and that we were free to sell the books he ordered.”

Erik stared, uncomprehending. He distinctly remembered telling Charles that he would know no want of anything under Erik’s roof. Had he thought books were an extravagance Erik wouldn’t be willing to grant him?

In truth, Charles’s love of books _was_ uncommon, although not quite on par with his desire to continue his education. Brian Xavier was considered quite mad, after all, for no bigger a provocation than having attended a university.

Education of the kind that schools and universities offered wasn’t generally meant for nobles. Someone of Charles’s station was considered well-educated if he excelled at fencing, riding, and dancing, if he could competently speak about hunting, and if he was the first one to adopt a new cut of sleeves. If he could also quote a couple of philosophers and had minimal understanding of history and the law of the land, he would be praised as an erudite.

Sciences were meant for enterprising young men and women of lesser descent. Third and second sons and daughters, whose parents were too poor or not noble enough to find positions for all their children. They were meant to become governors and tutors, doctors and barristers, bankers and sometimes, yes, even engineers and architects. Sciences were beneath the nobility, and the fact that Charles had been sent to a boarding school at all must have caused quite a scandal.

But then, Erik thought, Kurt Marko probably didn’t want Charles in the house any more than Charles wanted to be there, and some kind of excuse had been found. Brian Xavier’s will, perhaps – the late duke was known to be eccentric.

“Did he… give you any explanation regarding why he didn’t want the books anymore?” Erik asked. He didn’t quite enjoy the thought that the lack of books in his house – to which Erik still referred as ‘the new house’ in his head – had given Charles the wrong idea about him.

McCoy bit his lip. “He said he – he didn’t have means to purchase them now, and it would be unfair to ask us to keep them for him until he does.”

Erik scowled at the piles of books before him. So Charles didn’t trust him to make good on his promise; didn’t want to ask him for anything but essentials, if that.

“You’re still keeping them in the cabinet, though,” Erik noted.

There was a strangely determined set to the boy’s jaw when he spoke this time. “Lord Xavier has been a very good customer for years, and he ordered these tomes specifically. We would keep them for him.”

Erik arched a brow. “Even if he said you shouldn’t?”

McCoy gave a reluctant shrug. “They’re rather expensive, and most of them aren’t in that high demand anyway.”

Erik wasn’t a telepath, but it was somehow abundantly clear at that moment that McCoy would sooner pay for the books from his own wages, month after month probably if it came to that, to make sure they were still here when Charles came for them. Such a measure of loyalty was moving, and Erik wondered briefly if it stemmed from good customer history or something else entirely. There seemed to be something deeply personal about the way McCoy spoke about Charles and his books.

“I’ll take the entire set,” Erik announced.

McCoy started. “You want to… But—”

“Is there a problem?” Erik asked archly.

“Er, no, sir. But there are many more – er, interesting selections we can offer. Perhaps you would like to take a look at our collection of Roman authors? They are very popular this season, and we have noblemen from all over the City ordering the books for their libraries. Or perhaps _The Genealogy of the European Monarchs_? An extremely entertaining subjects at parties, as I’ve been informed—”

“No.” Erik shook his head, half irritated at being taken for someone who bought books as decorations or party entertainment, and part amused at McCoy’s desperate attempt to save Charles’s collection. “I want this set, and I will not be interested in any substitutions.”

“The collective price would be close to four hundred dollars,” McCoy said without much hope in his voice.

Erik smirked. “I’m good for it. I want these delivered tomorrow at the latest to this address.” He handed the boy his card.

McCoy took it, read the name cut in bold letters the color of steel, and blanched. “Lord Lehnsherr.”

Erik sketched a mock bow. “At your service.”

McCoy turned, if possible, even paler. “I am so deeply sorry for anything I might have said that—”

Erik lifted a hand, uninterested. “Here’s a note to my banker. You can send someone or you can close shop and go yourself, but I trust these will be delivered tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, sir.” McCoy’s hand was trembling as he collected the note. He seemed to have lost his talkative streak.

“Was there anything else Charles wanted?” Erik asked, looking around the cramped shop.

McCoy shifted from foot to foot, peering at Erik with intensity that seemed to circumvent even his fear, as though trying to figure him out.

Good God, Erik thought with a trace of irony. Did people really think he was such a monster?

“Well,” McCoy said hesitantly. “There’s also the Atlas.”

“Atlas?”

Instead of explaining, McCoy led him back into the main room of the shop.

Right in the center of it, on a sturdy pedestal, there was a huge volume bound exquisitely in dark green leather. The cover read in gilded letters _The New and Complete Atlas of the World, Including the Island of Australia and the Fifth Ocean_.

Carefully, McCoy lifted the cover and turned a few pages with reverent caution.

The Atlas _was_ gorgeous. The maps contained an incredible amount of detail, except instead of woodcuts, they were—

“Hand-painted,” McCoy breathed out in helpless admiration. “By Isso Tem.”

Erik blinked. Even being as far removed from the world of art as he was, he’d heard of the infamously talented and secretive painter.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “They are more like illustrations, then?”

“Oh, no.” McCoy shook his head, letting go of the page to give Erik a look of a proud father. “The maps are extremely precise. The British Admiralty ordered copies taken.”

Erik admitted that he was impressed in spite of himself. Of course, it was still largely impractical; to turn something that should have nothing _but_ practical value into a work of art to be admired rather than used seemed like something idle noblemen would commission. But Erik could easily see how it would ignite even the most stale of imaginations. Charles’s fascination with the Atlas was, perhaps, not quite reasonable, but natural enough.

“I wish to buy it,” Erik heard himself saying.

McCoy stilled beside him. “Would you like to know the price, my lord?” At Erik’s exasperated nod, he said, “A thousand dollars.”

So the boy wasn’t trying his patience nor had a death wish after all. That kind of money could feed a family of six for a year.

Erik laid a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, smirking as he felt the boy shudder. “McCoy, my dear fellow, I will pay you personally an additional amount of fifty dollars if you find a way to have this delivered to my house tonight before we are back.”

McCoy stared at him. “You’ll pay me fifty dollars for _a delivery_?”

“Can you make it?”

The boy straightened. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent,” Erik said, procuring a sheet of paper and scribbling a note hastily. “Take this to my chief of security. He will accompany you to the bank and will guard you while you carry the money.”

McCoy swallowed, taking the note, his eyes wide as he stared at Erik.

“Problem?” Erik inquired, a touch more tersely than he intended.

“No, sir.” McCoy looked away. “You are extremely generous with your gifts, my lord.”

Erik looked at the Atlas. For some reason, he could see nothing but Charles struggling to stand upright in his wedding suit, feet bare and vulnerable on the cold stone.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

He was almost at the door, when McCoy called after him. “My lord?”

Erik glanced at him over his shoulder. McCoy was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, looking anywhere but at Erik, as though debating the wisdom of speaking up.

“What is it?” Erik asked impatiently.

“Charles likes cherries.”

Erik blinked. “What.”

“Chocolate-covered cherries,” McCoy rushed to explain. “Not the white ones – the black ones, the kind they sell at the stand at the end of the row. Charles – Lord Xavier is very fond of them.”

Erik stared at him. The boy looked ready to be torn to pieces and swallowed by a lion.

He _was_ presuming, awfully so, but it was unlikely that his intention was to cause offence. McCoy was too socially inept for it. More importantly, the information was useful, so Erik let it slide.

“Define ‘very fond,’” Erik said in exasperation.

McCoy looked up. “I once saw him eat two dozen straight.”

Erik very nearly smiled. “Thank you.”

\--

He bought the cherries from a smiling woman at the stand and popped one into his mouth. Through the layer of chocolate, he could feel the surprising sting of the fruit.

Erik grinned and went to find Charles.

\--

He discovered Charles in the winter garden, engaged in a very serious conversation with a rather stern looking young lady, four or perhaps five years of age. She was trying to work out a suitable ending of a semi-logical premise of ‘whether the weather is cold,’ and Charles was offering suggestions, each more outrageous than the next one. The girl seemed torn between stomping her foot in frustration and giggling helplessly as her chaperone watched on indulgently, the majority of her attention on her other charge – a boy in a sailor suit playing by the fountain.

Erik looked on for a few moments, feeling a pang of envy at Charles’s apparent ease with the child. It was perhaps too early to tell what kind of parent he’d make, but there was no doubt that he was a superb older brother.

“Charles,” Erik said softly, stepping closer.

Both Charles and the girl started at the sudden invasion into their little world, Charles taking himself under control quickly and giving Erik a perfunctory smile, the girl backing away with a frightened gasp, her eyes wide.

“Oh no, it’s all right, love,” Charles said, soothing. “This is Erik. He’s a friend.”

Erik bowed at her. “Your servant, my lady.”

The girl contemplated him with clear suspicion, but it was obvious that her governess knew her trade – after a moment, she curtsied with perfect poise. Even feeling as awkward as he always did around children, Erik had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

The chaperone approached at that moment and, after exchanging some pleasantries and gracing Charles with a warm smile, led her little charge away, the girl’s vividly red curls bouncing against the crisp white collar of her dress.

“Making friends?” Erik asked softly.

Charles started and turned his eyes quickly away from the departing group. “I… um. I suppose?” he gave Erik a shadow of a smile, as though his lips were suddenly uncooperative.

“I apologize for making you wait,” Erik said. “Have you been terribly bored?”

“Pardon?” Charles seemed to have trouble concentrating. “Oh. Bored. No, not at all.”

“What have you been up to, then?”

“I – nothing much.” Charles busied himself straightening the lace on his cuffs. “Looked at a few displays; had an errand to run. It’s been long overdue.”

Erik studied his bent head for a moment. “Here,” he said. “Since we missed lunch, I picked this up when I passed the stand. Surprisingly nice, actually.”

Charles took the paper cone automatically, reaching inside with his hand without looking. As he pulled out the uneven sphere of a confectionary, his face froze for a second in an odd way. When he looked up at Erik, his eyes were opaque, like shuttered windows.

“I didn’t realize you had a sweet tooth, my lord.”

Erik shrugged with artful nonchalance. “It was the only thing still on offer.”

Charles stared at him for a moment longer, then put the treat into his mouth. He didn’t utter a sound, but Erik almost felt could hear a moan of pleasure, quiet and languid like a sweet summer afternoon.

Further down the lane, an elderly shopkeeper who’d been berating his boy for the last ten minutes suddenly laughed and dismissed the kid with a half-hearted tug at his ear. A matron staring sternly at her daughter smiled indulgently as the girl splattered water from the fountain over her dress. A quarrelling couple on the opposite bench stopped arguing in favor of peering soulfully into each other’s eyes.

Erik looked at Charles, who bit into another cherry, a shy grin melting on his lips along with a smear of dark chocolate. Erik glanced around again in amused alarm. If something as simple as a damn sweet was prompting an empathic shockwave like that, what would happen when Charles felt true joy about something?

It was also curious that Erik himself had remained completely unaffected. It should have been good news, but for some unknown reason, it bothered him, although he couldn’t pinpoint the nature of his discontent.

That Charles was a strong empath as well as telepath, Erik had already suspected, and that he guarded his negative emotions from spilling over more than the pleasant ones was also not quite a surprise. Erik expected Charles had had far more opportunities to practice control of the first rather than the second.

The only question left to answer was whether Erik had some sort of immunity or if Charles was taking additional measures to avoid invading his mental space in particular. Erik wasn’t sure which option he’d prefer.

Glancing around to ensure that they were relatively unobserved, Erik tilted Charles’s chin up, gently pressing his thumb against the corner of Charles’s mouth and wiping away a drop of chocolate. Charles stilled under the touch, blushing to the roots of his hair, but endured it, letting Erik have his way.

Erik couldn’t enjoy his embarrassment for too long without attracting attention, so he dropped his hand, and murmured, “We’ll be late for the countess’s garden party. Shall we?”

9.

Erik hadn’t planned on going; of all the occasions for socializing the City had to offer, garden parties were by far the most boring ones. He could only spend so much time pretending to admire someone’s sculptures, and as for games of sport that were often played at such events, Erik would have enjoyed them better if he could understand the nonsensical rules. Applying his not-unimpressive mind to the rules of cricket made his skull hurt, and the game of flamingo was beyond his logic entirely.

Most of all, though, Erik couldn’t stop thinking of all the useful, practical things he could be doing instead of idly mingling and mindlessly chattering. He had no idea if Charles enjoyed those occasions any better, but it stood to reason that he might. After all, Charles had been brought up amidst all this leisurely splendor; for all Erik knew, he could live for parties like these. But Erik hadn’t yet come into the habit of consulting someone else before accepting or declining the invitations.

The Countess de Viollen’s gatherings were particularly aggravating to Erik. The lady herself had taken a special liking to him ever since he’d spent an afternoon weaving air-thin threads of fine copper for her little embroidery club. Erik needed her influence, but he could barely stand the woman’s attentions, especially after she’d made clear her desire to set him up with one of her numerous nieces for a mistress.

But the boy from the bookshop, McCoy, would need more time to make his special delivery, and Erik couldn’t think of anything else that would keep him and Charles out of the house for long otherwise.

Charles took his arm demurely. If he was surprised by the change of itinerary, he didn’t show it, but Erik could feel the tension in his body. He never said as much, but Erik guessed that Charles didn’t enjoy being paraded around like a prize dog on a leash – which, in a sense, was exactly what he was. Perhaps if that wasn’t the case, he’d have minded less.

The party ended up being less of a strain on his patience than Erik had anticipated. The hostess was distracted by some mishap in the kitchens; the day was lovely enough to touch even the moodiest of souls; and the archery competition was a form of entertainment even Erik could find no fault in.

He amused himself for a bit, magnetizing the arrowheads to veer them off course or to the center, depending on the shooter, but was discovered after a young lady who was obviously abysmal with a bow managed to win against a renowned gentleman shooter. He was too smug about his achievements, in Erik’s opinion.

“Gallant,” Charles commented softly, so that only Erik could hear as the girl blushed and sent Erik a grateful smile – and an inviting look.

“Try not to sound so surprised, my lord,” Erik responded dryly, bowing to the girl. “I’m not always the barbarian you’d have me be.”

Charles glanced at him before turning back to study the girl. “She’s pretty. The kind who would appreciate a barbaric streak in a man, I should think.”

Erik laughed. “Forgive me, Charles, for being less than gallant, but what would _you_ know of such things? You might be able to read her thoughts if you wished, but I would imagine it would take a bit more… experience to truly understand the nature of such desires.”

Next to him, Charles stiffened. The color was high on his cheeks as he looked up, but his jaw was stubbornly set.

“If you believe me innocent on account of my age alone, you’re doing both of us a disservice by injuring my dignity and casting a shadow on your own experience with the world.”

Erik turned away from the flirtatious smiles of the young lady, surrounded now by her giggling friends, to give Charles the entirety of his attention. Erik had to bite his lip. Standing there, his hair mussed by the soft breeze, face smooth as a baby’s and with a paper cup of strawberry ice in his hands, Charles looked the very picture of innocence.

“You take offence too easily,” Erik said quietly, teasing him. “The truth, however, should not be cause for offence at all, my lord. You _are_ an innocent, as we both very well know. No, it’s not on account of your age,” Erik hastened to add as Charles opened his mouth to object. “Forgive me for being blunt, but the simple truth is your starting auction price would not have been nearly as high if that wasn’t the case.”

For a long moment, Charles remained entirely still, his cheeks flaming red, unable to find any words of response.

It was needlessly cruel, and Erik couldn’t tell what had possessed him. It was the chocolate cherries maybe, or the whole business with Raven’s departure, or Charles’s condescending remark just now. They weren’t equals, and if Charles forgot himself, Erik would remind him of his place at any time and in any way he’d see fit. No one should ever dare to presume to be the master of Erik.

He was dimly aware of the inconsistency of his own thoughts and actions and a certain unfairness of the charge.

But the truth was, in the short time since the wedding, Charles had managed to become more than the original plan for him had intended. He was becoming important, Erik was prepared to take care of him, but he never planned to _care_ for him. The boy was supposed to be an ornament, a fashionable accessory on Erik’s arm, one that would place him on the right side of the ‘friend/foe’ distinction of the New World society – nothing more.

“I suppose the fact that you paid four times that price entitles you to insult me whenever you like,” Charles said coldly, having collected himself in the short pause Erik’s distraction allowed him. “Well, there’s no denying that you are correct. The right is yours. I would only request that you specify the response you require of me – I am aware that there could be variations. I will, of course, accommodate you in whichever way you prefer.”

“Charles,” Erik sighed, reaching for him, not surprised when the boy recoiled. “Forgive me, please. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It was only the truth, my lord, as you yourself observed. You are free to speak it whenever it pleases you.”

“Fine,” Erik snapped, frowning. Confusion always made him angry, and he had never been proficient in deciphering emotions. And he had spoken the truth, after all. If Charles chose to take offence to that, it was his choice entirely. “But just so you know, innocence is not a dirty word in whatever meaning you use it. If you believe otherwise, then I shudder to think what the ideal is that you’re striving to achieve, but be assured that you will not succeed while I am your master.”

Charles’s lips trembled once at the accusation before he pursed them tightly, sinking down on one knee to give Erik a traditional subservient bow. The only thing that differentiated the bow of an obedient spouse from that of a bound slave was that the latter had to go down on both knees.

Erik was very much aware of the curious glances thrown their way from all over the gardens, waiting for the next part. He hated to give them the satisfaction, but there was only one way he could end the scene now and release Charles from his position.

Steeling himself, he offered his hand for a kiss, and felt Charles’s lips dutifully brush his knuckles. Erik rested his hand on the boy’s head for a moment, before helping him up. As soon as Charles was on his feet, he pulled his hand away from Erik’s hold, eyes downcast suitably for a chastised partner. His ice paper cup was abandoned on the ground, waiting for a servant to pick it up.

The flow of conversation resumed slowly around them. The tableau they presented was not unusual per se, but indeed rare. The countess might as well pay them for the provided entertainment that would no doubt make the party the most discussed event for a while. Erik scowled.

In the far end of the spacious garden, musicians began to play a lyrical dancing tune.

“You have no one to blame for that little display but your own love for histrionics,” Erik said quietly, regretting it almost at once. He’d done enough damage for one day, but it was as though he couldn’t stop.

Charles didn’t reply, only bowed again, more subdued this time.

Erik sighed, experiencing the curious sensation of someone who knows he’s in the right but can’t help feeling guilty all the same, and keeps summoning arguments to convince himself of the former.

The arrival of the countess herself saved him from further investigation of his motives.

“My lord Erik,” she drawled with delighted reproach as he bent over her hand, “why the long face? Do you not know that speaking of serious matters is strictly forbidden at my parties?”

“My mistake, Madam.” Erik gave her a polite smile. “But perhaps I may be excused, on the count of the matter not being that serious?”

“Not serious?” She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Then whatever you were chastising your darling husband for? I know better than most that young people require a lot of discipline these days, but just look at him! What could this angel possibly have done to upset you?”

Erik was momentarily at a loss for words, and, perhaps sensing that, Charles stepped forward.

“I have many faults, my lady, as you very well know,” he said with a self-deprecating smile and a courteous bow.

“Oh, I do indeed,” she replied, patting his cheek with familiarity that her long acquaintance with his mother had given her. “I bet it was that inexterminable cheek of yours, wasn’t it, darling? I’ve told you many times, young man – it’s not an attractive quality in a partner.”

“Indeed you have, Madam,” Charles agreed sweetly. “Alas, I seem to persist.”

“And speaking out of turn,” she remarked with a chuckle. “Oh, my lord Erik. Whatever will you do with him?”

Erik looked over at Charles for a moment. “I’m open to suggestions, my lady.”

The countess laughed. “I say keep an eye on him, but let him play his fill. You won’t have a moment’s peace otherwise, and trust me, my dear, the sooner they start, the better for everyone.” She leaned into Erik, ostensibly for privacy, but, as she hardly bothered to lower her voice, her words carried. “And spares you the trouble of teaching him all the tricks yourself, if you know what I mean.”

She could not have chosen a worst topic to comment on, and Erik felt twice as guilty watching Charles stand there, pretending he couldn’t hear.

It was a tremendous relief when young Lord Summers appeared in front of them, bowing first to Erik and the countess before smiling at Charles. As usual, he was wearing a rather peculiar pair of glasses that resembled huge, hollow emeralds incased in brass, polished to shine.

“My goodness, Scott, how lovely you look today,” the countess commented. “You should always wear green, it goes so well with your, er – spectacles, my dear. Doesn’t it, Lord Erik?”

Despite him being one of the Gifted, for some unknown reason, Erik didn’t hold much sympathy for the youngest of the Summers brothers. As he despised talking about clothes in general, he managed a grunt that he hoped would pass as an affirmative.

“Lord Lehnsherr,” Scott said quickly before further remarks on his attire could be made, “may I have your permission to ask if Charles would do me the honor of being my partner for the next dance?”

“Such manners,” the countess commented. “How can you refuse such a charming young man, my lord Erik?”

Erik ignored her. He was at liberty to accept or decline for Charles, regardless of the latter’s wishes, but he glanced over at the boy again. “Charles?”

Charles’s eyes were still modestly fixed on the ground, but he answered quickly – too quickly for Erik’s liking. “I’d love to, if I may, my lord.”

Erik nodded at Summers then with a grin that made him flinch. Without further ado, Scott offered his hand to Charles, and Erik didn’t miss the tight clench of Charles’s fingers on Scott’s wrist.

“They make a striking pair, don’t they?” the countess remarked, looking after them. “Lady Summers had often said she wished for this match, you know. Of course, Scott is just a couple of years older, but they always seemed to like each other, and, well – Scott is the quiet type, not at all like Alex. You wouldn’t have come to the City yet then, but a few years ago, Alex Summers had been the talk of the town. Brawling, dueling – caught in a lower town cabaret once, can you imagine? Charming young man, but very boisterous.”

“What happened to him?” Erik asked absently, watching as Charles and Scott took their positions on a platform laid for dancing, facing each other. Scott must have said something, because Charles looked up suddenly and smiled.

“The old Lord Summers died, of course,” the countess continued, her fan sending puffs of perfume in Erik’s direction. “And they realized just how much he loved gambling. They had to sell the better part of their country estate; Scott manages what’s left of it now, which is for the best, if you ask me. He wanted to go to university before.” Her lips curled in disdain. “What a waste that would have been.

“Anyway, some might say Alex was not much better – he bought a lieutenant’s commission and sailed overseas. I personally think the military service would do him some good; teach him some discipline. And his share of bounty must be substantial – Lady Summers has renovated their townhouse this year.” She sighed. “All for the best, really, I say. In a few years, he’ll come back a dashing captain, and the City will be in chaos again.” Her eyes gleamed at the thought.

The dance had started, some local variation of a quadrille. Erik watched as Scott took a hold of Charles’s hand, leading him through the figures.

“Yes, quite a picturesque pair,” the countess sighed. “The Summers are too poor, of course, for Lord Marko to consider them, even before the auction. Although I think Lady Sharon wouldn’t have minded so much.”

Erik had nothing to say to that. Scott Summers reminded him most of all of a dish that looked appetizing when laid out on a table, but absolutely bland and lacking any measure of seasoning when one tried to actually eat it.

But Charles seemed to enjoy his company well enough; he danced two more dances with Scott, stretching the bounds of decency. Erik felt disinclined to interfere, however – one scene per party had been one more than he’d have preferred.

Somewhere between tasting _pâté de foie gras_ (delicious) and claret (acceptable) from the old count’s reserves, Erik had developed a mild headache. His time was not completely wasted, though, as he discovered more than one Council lord quietly bored while the ladies they were escorting floated away from their sides and enjoyed themselves. It was as good a time as any to gauge their mood in regards to the Chancellor’s latest initiative.

Many of the Council lords belonged to the older generation, one that relied heavily upon tradition. Unplanned though it was, Erik’s little display of power and apparent willingness to instill proper compliance in his husband endeared him to the men who had previously been no more than civil toward him. Slowly, Erik was beginning to get a feeling of his potential allies and opponents.

A highly fruitful evening indeed.

\--

The first stars had risen when Erik broke away from his last conversation partner. Some of the guests had left, while others had split into smaller groups, the semi-darkness lending intimacy and even a degree of freedom to their conversations.

Charles was nowhere to be seen – but before Erik could so much as contemplate a search, a servant pointed him in the direction of the little ornate pavilion, secluded from view by an artful spread of ivy.

Erik walked slowly, soft-footed. He half-expected to find Summers there, causing some kind of mischief, but Charles was alone on the narrow wooden bench, his chin on his elbow resting on the railing. He was gazing into space with an absent expression on his face, looking pale and exhausted.

“Charles,” Erik called.

At the sound of his voice, Charles stiffened, and slid up to his feet, bowing courteously. It was so reminiscent of their wedding night that Erik felt a sharp pang of guilt in his chest.

“Come,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “It’s time to go home.”

They paid their respects to the hostess – more than a little tipsy, now – and walked through the house to its front, where the carriage was waiting.

Charles wouldn’t have felt at ease to decline, should Erik have offered him his arm, so Erik didn’t offer, even though every instinct in him screamed for it. They made their way in silence, and, once they reached their carriage, Erik let Charles climb in by himself.

“Are you feeling well?” Erik asked finally, when the sound of the hooves against the cobblestones and the soft creak of the springs became too loud to endure.

“Yes, my lord.”

Erik gritted his teeth. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Charles? Because of – whatever it was earlier?”

Charles looked at him blankly. “No, my lord.”

“Will you agree with anything I say now?”

“As my lord commands.”

“Stop it,” Erik ordered, frustrated. “Look, Charles – I have a temper. This couldn’t possibly come as a surprise to you.”

Charles said nothing, turning his head to stare out of the window.

“I do not know what you want from me,” he said at last.

Erik turned toward his own window.

The rest of the way was silent.

\--

“Are you fucking serious?” Logan hissed the moment Erik stepped through the door.

He’d stopped by the stables to discuss the next day’s arrangements, so Charles had already gone upstairs.

“Whatever do you mean?” Erik asked, shrugging his coat off and handing it to a footman.

Logan snorted, his expression one of amused exasperation. The way he regarded Erik was unbearably smug.

“Like you don’t know. It’s here, all right, in the upstairs music room. Did you really spend a thousand dollars trying to impress a boy you’ve already married?”

“Logan, do yourself a favor,” Erik murmured, wrapping his arm around the man’s shoulders, “and shut up.”

Logan laughed his rude, unpolished laugh, shaking Erik off. “As you say, your lordship.” He walked off in the direction of the kitchens, whistling.

There was no question that Logan would have sent Charles straight for it. Erik gave himself a moment to feel the quietness of the house before he moved to follow.

As he walked into the music room, he found it all there. The Atlas was resting on the same sturdy pedestal from the bookshop – a bonus gift, no doubt, for the purchase. Charles was standing in front of it, looking at it in blank stupor.

“It’s for you.” Erik’s voice shattered the fragile silence like a stone thrown through a glass window. He felt as though he was walking over very, very thin ice.

Charles turned to look at him, wide-eyed, but said nothing.

“I thought we could start a proper library.” Erik had thought nothing of the sort, but it wouldn’t do to confess it now. Words were stumbling out of him, unbidden, words he’d never designed into existence even in the privacy of his own mind. “There’ll be more books arriving in the morning; I took the liberty of selecting a few for you. When – if you decide to leave in four years time, you can take them all with you. The Atlas, too, I mean.”

“I can’t possibly,” Charles uttered, barely audible. His hands were digging into his own arms, as though he was physically holding himself together.

Erik frowned. “Of course you can. Consider it my wedding gift.”

“You’ve already given me a gift.” Charles cleared his throat. “Kurt is very proud of that horse. It’s already won him a few races.”

“That wasn’t for _you_ ; I was trying to impress your stepfather,” Erik said impatiently. “ _This_ is for you. Don’t you like it?”

“Don’t I—” Charles bit his lip. “I’ve only dreamed of having it since the first time Raven and I saw it in the shop.” He shook his head. “We’d look at the pages and plan our expeditions – to South America, or India, or even Australia. We dreamed of traveling the world, just the two of us, free at last from—” He trailed off.

The silence stretched.

Finally, Charles looked up. “Lord Lehnsherr – Erik. What is it you want from me?”

“Nothing,” Erik said, confused. “It’s just a gift, Charles.”

“For what? You already have me in your possession – you don’t have to win me over. You’re kind to me, but it’s clear that you don’t care for _me_ , just for what I represent. You don’t want my body, yet you don’t send me away, don’t leave me alone. You treat me as a friend, then make it clear we can never be equals. You laugh at me for being innocent and then accuse me of being a whore in the same breath.” His voice rose higher, more desperate with every word. “I can’t understand you. What is it you _want_?”

“I just—” Erik started, then stared at the Atlas, stared at Charles. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

That was the truth.

Charles must have sensed it, because the anxious intensity bled out of him, his shoulders drooping.

Erik turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

10.

Erik spent a sleepless night locked in his study. He tried to work, but it was no good; the lines on the blueprints were coming out all wrong and warped from under his hands – _his hands_ , which never trembled! It was frustrating and drove him to drink, but the finest French cognac tasted sour and he couldn’t finish the glass. Once or twice he got up, marching all the way to the door with some unclear intention of going to the bedroom, of waking Charles and trying to explain, but he thought better of it every time. Explaining was too much like an apology, and that would severely undermine Erik’s authority.

Besides, he had nothing to apologize for, not exactly. He was only teasing the boy, for God’s sake – he had no idea exactly how things had escalated the way they had. One moment, Charles had been there, trusting Erik enough to guard his sleep; the next, they were here.

_Apologies make you weak._

It was as though Erik could hear his grandfather’s voice, once again so clear and unequivocal in his head. It had seemed so unfair the first time, when Erik had accidentally knocked off a teacup from the tray a servant was putting on the table. The cup had broken, the serving girl rushed to collect the pieces, cutting her hand in the process.

Perhaps if Erik could stay as he’d been at that moment – a proud heir of an old House; inheriting the castle and the land surrounding it; learning from his grandfather how to manage it through the years as his mother provided a more gentling influence – then he could have kept the luxury of being generous with his apologies when they were due. Perhaps he would have learned something about maintaining balance in a partnership, however peculiar it may have been.

But ‘perhaps’ was not a word he liked to frequently use. After standing with his feet ankle-deep in rubble and ashes that used to be his home; after being betrayed by the first person he dared call a friend, beaten, and left for dead, all for a piece of stale bread; after pledging loyalty to a monarch who was only interested in using him for his Gift, Erik had learned quickly that he was not a person who could afford to appear weak.

He told himself all that and more, staring into the glowing embers in the fireplace. He had acted rightly if not courteously, of that he was sure. Charles was too sensitive, and the world was cruel. Erik was doing him a favor.

Abruptly, a vision of Lord Kurt Marko shaking his hand appeared in front of his eyes.

Erik cursed loudly in the ruby glow of the room and threw the remains of his drink into the fire’s dying shadow.

\--

Morning brought, if not relief, then at least a change of scenery.

A messenger arrived as they were sitting down to breakfast, sparing Erik the necessity to converse with Charles. The boy had greeted him dispassionately enough, but his face wore signs of a restless night. Erik was startled by how much he wanted to touch him, to ease the deep, worried line between his eyebrows.

The messenger brought news from the manager Erik had hired to look after his new estate in the country, the one that gave him the right to join the City Council – Finn Reagan. He was a competent enough fellow, judging by his initial report, but the note attached to the package stated in tones most considerate and polite that it would be beneficial if Lord Lehnsherr visited the estate at his earliest convenience, as some things needed to be settled in person.

Erik stared at the note for a while, contemplating the request. It would soon be the time when staying would mean bad taste or lack of funds to at least rent a summer house. That said, he hadn’t planned on leaving the City for the summer, as most nobles were prone to do – Erik wasn’t bothered by social conventions of that sort. His factory was finally reaching the stage of being fully operational, which meant he could devote the bulk of his time to the construction of the all-metal bridge – something he could hardly wait to do.

But perhaps a short visit would indeed be beneficial. It wasn’t prudent, after all, to buy such a huge expanse of land without seeing it for himself, and he liked having all his affairs in order.

There was also Charles to consider.

He wasn’t in the breakfast room, and Erik quickly realized he’d spent more time than he’d thought considering the proposition. But it wasn’t a mystery as to where the boy had gotten to – Erik had heard a shuffle of feet earlier, as well as McCoy’s voice. The books must have been delivered, and Charles was likely inspecting his treasures.

Charles was indeed in the upstairs music room, sitting on his knees on the floor and surrounded by boxes. He was pulling the volumes from them one by one and carefully unwrapping the tomes with a gobsmacked expression on his face.

He turned at the sound of Erik’s footsteps, his eyes impossibly wide and blue, like a confused rainstorm.

“Quite a collection you have there,” Erik said mildly, walking over to him and picking up a few liberated books for a moment, before putting them back. “A bit eclectic, though, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Charles said in an odd voice. “I cannot fathom how this particular selection came to be.”

Erik looked at him. Charles was staring at the thick book lying in his lap, his fingers stroking the beautiful leather binding absently. His hand was trembling slightly, the other curled tightly into a fist.

“Charles,” Erik sighed – and just like that, all the fight and the turmoil of the night before bled out of him. He sank to his knees next to Charles and covered his restless hand with his own, stilling it, before reaching for the other. Erik’s long fingers uncurled the fist gently, his thumb pressing softly against the half-moon traces Charles’s nails had grounded into his palm. “Oh, Charles.”

Charles still didn’t quite look at him, and Erik watched as the line of his mouth tightened, then relaxed again.

“I know I can be… difficult,” Erik said at last. “Demanding. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Charles let out a quiet snort. “And I should not have been offended by a mere reminder of my status, however crass or unexpected it came – but I suppose I couldn’t help it.”

“Charles—”

“No.” Charles looked up, the expression in his eyes almost belligerently resolute. “I _am_ an acquired property. The only difference between me and any horse in your stables is that I can talk as well as walk.”

It angered Erik to the core of his being, but technically, that was the case. There was no objection to be made.

“You treated me so kindly,” Charles said, still staring at him with unnerving intensity, “that I forgot, for a moment. Erik—” He paused, and then slowly, determinedly pulled his hands free. “My lord, you should not exert yourself so on my behalf, lest I forget again.”

Torn between conflicting impulses, Erik stared at him for a moment, almost helplessly. Then, he clenched his jaw tightly and stood up.

He watched Charles for a few minutes as the boy finished unpacking the books and straightened up, stretching his limbs.

Erik cleared his throat. “I actually came to ask you something. I will be departing today to the Iris Hall to meet with my manager and inspect the house and the land; I don’t imagine the entire affair will take more than a fortnight. Would you prefer to accompany me or to remain here in this house while I’m gone?”

Charles considered this, his hand resting on top of the new edition of the _Iliad_ , as though drawing strength from it. Finally, he inclined his head. “If it isn’t much of an inconvenience, I would like to go with you.”

“No inconvenience at all,” Erik said, both appreciative and newly tense at Charles’s answer. “We leave at noon. You should—” Erik began, but Charles’s gaze was on the books again, clear longing etched in his expression. “I’ll order them to pack your things myself.”

Charles couldn’t quite conceal the gratitude as he met Erik’s eyes. “Thank you, my lord,” he said.

Erik bit back a smile and walked out of the room, the feeling of something heavy and cold pressing down his chest easing a little.

11.

The ride was long, but the road was good, the sky clear and blue and the sun gentle on Erik’s face. Normally, he quite enjoyed a good long ride, but today, despite the beauty of the day on loan from summer, everything irritated him.

He was on horseback, both because he always felt trapped in a carriage and didn’t want to share one with Charles just now, but the usual joy of it was elusive. The sun seemed too hot; there wasn’t much dust in the air raised by the horses due to recent rains, but even the smallest amount was cause enough for his annoyance.

Logan was also riding, as nothing but being wretchedly drunk would make him be transported any other way. Unlike Erik, though, who rode mostly apart and often skipped ahead in his impatience, Logan kept close to the carriage, supposedly performing his duties as a guard.

He seemed more interested in talking to Charles, who was leaning against the window frame on his elbow. They conversed freely, and Logan seemed to be in an entertaining mood – Charles broke into laughter often, breathlessly making remarks Erik couldn’t overhear.

Erik frowned at them and rode on ahead, scouting, then returned and frowned more deeply. Charles seemed entirely too enthralled by whatever anecdotes of his past adventures Logan was regaling him with to notice anything. Moreover Logan had suddenly developed a most peculiar ability to look at Erik without seeing him – while their eyes met sometimes, the swordsman never showed as though he’d noticed Erik’s scowl.

It was all extremely irritating.

They stopped to change horses about halfway, giving the men a chance to stretch their legs and have lunch. The tavern was neat, but small, with only a slightly wider path between the rows of tables that separated the area meant for the nobles from the rest of the room.

Logan took a seat beside Charles without ceremony, leaving Erik to choose one opposite them. Normally, Erik was all for more liberty between men of rank and men of skill, and he extended especially broad liberty to his staff. Logan, whom Erik also grudgingly counted as a friend, had a standing permission to join them for meals, though he rarely wished to.

But right now, Erik found himself scowling again. On Logan’s advice, Charles ordered soup in a bread bowl, food of the commoners that he’d had no chance to try before. Charles listened, fascinated, as Logan explained how it was made while showing him how to handle it. Charles seemed to take immense delight in the experience, biting into the crusty cover with gusto.

It didn’t matter that this was the only food the cook here knew how to make and therefore the only sensible option, noble or no.

Erik found himself opening his mouth to argue on principle, to say that Charles should perhaps put a bit more decorum in his behavior and to tell Logan off for being overly familiar. But then he caught Logan’s eye, and this time, the swordsman most certainly noticed him, smirking. Erik glared at him but returned sourly and silently to his own rather abominable filet mignon.

As though having made a point, Logan took the lead when they returned to the road. Charles pulled back from the window this time, keeping quiet, perhaps taking a nap. Erik sympathized; long carriage rides always made him sleepy, and it was his carriage, so the springs were good for it.

The mansion was revealed as the road brought them around another sharp turn. Logan slowed down, a curse spilling from his lips, Charles gasped, and even Erik pulled at the reins instinctively. The Iris Hall was quite a sight to behold.

Compared to the grandeur of Westchester, Iris Hall was a product of modern architecture, built not to impress so much as to serve, though it was elegant in its utilitarianism. A sleeve of a river held it in a half-embrace from the western side, making it look like a castle, flanked by the forest line.

“It’s beautiful,” Charles breathed in wonder.

Erik nodded. He hadn’t seen the estate before he’d bought it, and while the only reason for the purchase had been the seat on the Council that came along with the land, he made a mental note to commend Azazel’s taste.

Thus inspired after a long journey, they made their way toward the mansion if not at double speed, then at least in higher spirits.

The house itself was beautiful as well, although it lacked a little character as of yet. The previous owners hadn’t lived here long to begin with and not at all for the past ten years, and during that time, the residence had lost what little personality it possessed. That would change, Erik thought, if he ever chose to actually live here.

They were greeted by an elderly butler, the esteemed Barrings, and Mr Reagan himself.

Erik quite liked Mr Reagan – the man showed himself as an efficient manager who knew his trade well. His manner was perhaps more simpering and subservient than Erik would have liked, but he supposed that kind of attitude toward one’s betters was at the peak of fashion now, at least in the New World. Back in Europe, the servants strived to be invisible; in America, they seemed very keen on making their masters notice their efforts.

The travelers settled down quickly. Charles looked around with new curiosity, particularly drawn by the sight of the glorious outdoors. He was cheerful at dinner, showing more than passing enthusiasm for the country dishes that were served alongside more typical choices. Logan was downright amused, and even Mr Reagan, whom Erik had asked to join them, seemed to be unable to keep from smiling every time his eyes fell on Charles.

Unlike Erik’s house in New York, the master bedroom in Iris Hall contained only one bed, albeit of truly monstrous proportions. Erik opted to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms instead, but Charles caught his wrist.

“It’s all right,” he said, staring at the tips of his shoes. “We shouldn’t start this by giving the servants food for gossip.”

Erik looked at him. More than anything at that moment, he wanted to gather Charles close and bury his face in his hair. He longed for it so badly; the tips of his fingers were tingling. But Charles’s touch had been fleeting, and he didn’t look comfortable in the least.

Erik fell asleep, listening to the quiet sound of Charles’s breathing, and the night was peaceful.

\--

The week was spent most pleasantly. Mr Reagan took them on a tour of the estate and its lands and introduced Erik to the farmers who were soon to become his tenants. They seemed a bit too intimidated by him, which Erik found unusual – normally, common people felt more at ease with him, despite his nobility. Perhaps it was his status as a foreigner and the new master.

Mr Reagan was extremely complimentary about the land. He showed Erik the fishing ponds, the streams between them ripe with silvery spines of trout, and the hunting grounds. Charles showed no interest in the latter, but Erik was delighted. He was a good shot, but more than that, he loved the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit and the inevitable victory. It had been a long time since Erik had had the pleasure, too, so he jumped at the chance, and wasn’t disappointed.

He was accompanied by Logan. Charles’s face registered obvious distaste for the exercise, but he seemed to appreciate the roasted boar and the rabbit stew well enough. Erik and Logan smirked over his head, Charles stoically ignoring them.

Unlike Erik, who was civil enough but drew no genuine pleasure from the company of the obsequious Mr Reagan, Charles seemed to like spending time with the man. He followed Reagan to his meetings with the farmers and generally seemed to be glued to the man’s side.

Erik found it all the more peculiar, since Reagan treated Charles like an endearing child with a crush. It was mostly ridiculous, considering Charles was almost fifteen and not the slightest bit infantile in his manner; Reagan’s awkward flirting looked all the more inappropriate for it and made Erik cringe with second-hand embarrassment.

But Charles seemed, if not appreciative, then at least oblivious, smiling his bright smile and hanging onto the man’s every word.

The contrast was all the starker when Charles knocked on the door of Erik’s study late one night.

“Am I disturbing you, my lord?” he asked, a frown wedged between his eyebrows.

“Not at all,” Erik replied, gesturing at a chair. “Come in – I was answering the correspondence Azazel left for me this morning. Messages from concerned Council members, mostly. I’d appreciate a distraction.”

Charles gave him an odd look as he took a seat. “I’m uncertain if you’ll still feel that way after you hear me out.”

Erik straightened up in his chair, dropping the quill. “What’s wrong?”

“There is a problem,” Charles said. He paused to clear his throat, then looked Erik in the eye. “With Mr Reagan.”

Involuntarily, Erik lent forward. “Has he behaved improperly toward you?”

“Pardon?” Charles blinked. “Oh, no; that’s not it. I’m not the injured party here, or, if I am, it’s indirectly, at best.”

Confused, Erik frowned. “Charles—”

“There is no polite way to say it.” Charles grimaced. “Mr Reagan has been stealing from you.”

Erik stared at him for a moment. The news was unexpected – he didn’t like the man personally, but he still respected him in his professional capacity.

“Are you sure?” he asked, displaying, he hoped, not his distrust in Charles, but rather his incredulity at the entire situation. “Have you read his mind?”

For the first time when Erik asked that question, Charles hadn’t launched into an immediate and categorical denial.

“I am certain,” he said, his frown deepening. “My lord, you have to see… I grew up at Westchester, an estate very nearly the size of this one. After my father died, it soon fell to me to manage it. Lord Marko has neither the talent nor the inclination toward such duties, and my mother grew tired of strangers. I kept the books in order; mediated disputes; approved the rent. You can see, can’t you, how I know a little about how an estate such as this is run?”

Erik nodded. He hadn’t considered the possibility before, but it made sense – Sharon Xavier would unlikely tolerate intruders when her own son could provide the same services free of charge and with the family’s best interests at heart. That it robbed him of the time required to pursue more frivolous adventures more common for his age was undoubtedly not the kind of consideration that could have swayed her.

Taking Erik’s nod as acceptance, Charles continued, “When we first went to see the lands, Mr Reagan mentioned rent prices that sounded unusually low. However, when we met the farmers, they seemed none too pleased about it. One of them kept thinking extremely loudly about being unable to feed his family.” He paused. “I can’t help overhearing surface thoughts sometimes, not when they’re so emotionally charged. I’m working on improving my shields, but—”

“Charles,” Erik interrupted. “You couldn’t help it. And even if you could—”

“It seemed odd to me, so I went back to talk to that man,” Charles said quickly. “I asked how much they were supposed to pay, and he named the price almost three times as high. At first I thought perhaps I had misheard Mr Reagan; that kind of rent price is unreasonably high. I had no doubt that the farmer told me the truth; his desperation was genuine.

“I assumed at the time that perhaps the farmers here implemented more technologically advanced tools of cultivation. But as we visited the farms, I saw no evidence to support this. They do not even have an adequate irrigation system, the kind we have developed in Westchester.”

Erik, who had never had any interest toward agriculture, felt as though he was seeing Charles in a new light. That he had all the makings of a sleek socialite, he’d revealed already, but this sudden knowledge was an entirely new facet.

Charles paused for a moment, biting his lip. Whatever he was about to say next was clearly making him uncomfortable.

“The farmers were scared of me,” Erik remembered.

“That was because Reagan told them you insisted on driving the rent prices so high, and anyone who couldn’t make it would be evicted.”

Erik stared at him.

“He also,” Charles added with a trace of pardonable malice, “told them about your Gift – and your temper.”

Erik bristled. “He lied.”

“But wisely so. One lie wrapped in so much truth – it was bound to work, you see. The farmers would dare not question you. And Mr Reagan would get the difference between what he told you they’d be paying and what they really would be paying. Of course, no farm could survive under such a burden, but even a year’s revenue would make him a rich man, and he doesn’t plan on staying for longer.”

“You read him, didn’t you?”

Charles winced. “It was almost impossible not to overhear his gloating. Deep down, he’s afraid of you, too, Erik. That he could fool you brings him the kind of pleasure one could almost call – carnal.”

Erik peered at him closely. Charles refused to blush.

“You read him.”

“I did.”

“All right,” Erik said.

Charles looked at him curiously. “I thought you’d be angry.”

“Oh, I am furious.” Erik scowled. “Not only will I sack that bastard, I will see that he never has another place of employ. I’m nobody’s fool, and the time when someone could take advantage of me and get away with it is long gone.”

But the truth was, Erik’s anger wasn’t nearly as strong as it should have been, and he suspected it had something to do with the fact that Charles had violated his self-imposed code of conduct to protect him.

“Forgive me,” Charles said quietly. “I didn’t mean to interfere or overreach—”

“You didn’t overreach, and I’m grateful for the interference,” Erik said.

Charles stood up and bowed. “I’ll leave you to your letters, my lord.”

\--

Giving Reagan the sack was less of a pleasure than Erik had anticipated. Firstly, the man had come uncomfortably close to having the best of Erik, for however brief a period – Erik might have had no interest toward land managing, but he always paid scrupulous attention to all his financial matters. If Charles hadn’t uncovered the plot in its infancy, Erik would have gotten there within a few months at the most.

Secondly, showing Reagan the door presented a problem of having no one to manage the estate. Asking for recommendations at large would potentially expose Erik’s lapse to the nobles of the City. While not crucial, that was not the effect Erik wanted to produce.

At the same time, he had appallingly few people he really trusted. Logan, old as he might be, would sooner develop his own airship schematics than be able to make sense of the property books. And Azazel, while quite versatile in his crafts, was badly needed in his position as Erik’s assistant and second engineer at the factory. Besides, Erik sincerely doubted either of them would enjoy the task.

“Why not leave Charles to do it?” Logan asked, stepping back into the study. He’d only just returned from seeing Reagan off Erik’s property, and his claws were still on full display.

“Charles?” Erik asked, taken aback.

“Why not?” Logan shrugged, finally retracting the blades. “He’s competent enough, you’d trust him, and forgive me for being blunt, your lordship, but some time away from you might do him a world of good.”

“But—” Erik started and fell silent.

But what? He was going to miss Charles? He’d gotten used to sharing his living space?

Ridiculous. It hadn’t been that long, and besides, Erik could never really find a place for Charles in his City life. Perhaps he hadn’t been trying hard enough, but the point remained. It _pleased_ him to have Charles in the house, but their latest interactions proved with perfect clarity that Charles was unhappy there.

Logan’s suggestion had merit. Leaving Charles here on his own, a master in his own right in Erik’s absence, with a domain of responsibility and some much needed autonomy was perhaps the wisest thing that could be done for the boy. Erik’s proposal had taken so much away from Charles – his home; his dignity; his family; his studies. Giving him something in return was not only fair, but in fact the _only_ fair thing.

Provided, of course, that Charles agreed.

Charles went utterly still when he heard the suggestion.

“You’re tired of me,” he said quietly, hands gripping his arms as though bracing him, a momentary betrayal of weakness. “I’m a nuisance.”

“Hardly.” Erik shook his head. “But you like it here, I noticed.”

Charles nodded. “It is rather… liberating.”

“Exactly. And I need someone I can trust to do this, Charles. I will not – force you to do this against your will, but—”

“I accept,” Charles interrupted him. “I will stay here as per your wishes, my lord. Until further notice.”

_He might run away,_ Erik thought. _I might lose him forever_.

_You never had him to begin with_ , replied a gruff voice that sounded surprisingly like Logan. _And if he does, both you and Marko will have deserved it_.

Erik slept uneasily that night. Charles, he could tell, did not sleep at all.

\--

The morning broke with a grey curtain of rain, pelting through the young leaves and weighing down the grass. Charles was quiet at breakfast, but out in the hall, he unexpectedly hugged Logan, clinging on to him for a moment too long.

Logan ruffled his hair. “Take care of yourself.”

Charles gave him a wan smile, and the swordsman walked out, cursing the rain and talking to the horses.

Erik lingered as Logan passed him by. He stepped forward, but Charles made no move to be near him, didn’t even extend a hand.

“Safe journey, my lord,” he said quietly with a courteous bow.

Erik regarded him for a few more seconds, but it was no good – Charles’s telepathy seemed to be locked in tighter than ever, and Erik couldn’t catch so much as a glimpse of what the boy was feeling.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

As he walked out on the porch, he could hear nothing but the distant rumble of thunder.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be short updates posted randomly on tumblr until Part II is up. Follow the tag 'the marriage bargain' of 'harlequin fic of doom' if you like to be spoiled...


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